CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(l\/lonographs) 


iCMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


[gl 


Canadian  Instituta  for  Historical  Mieroraproduction*  /  Inatitut  Canadian  da  microraproditction*  liittoriquaa 


1995 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  technique  el  bioliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  avaiiable  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibiiographicaliy  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  uoual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 

ry\      Coloured  covers  / 
' — '      Couveiture  de  couleur 


D 

D 

D 
D 
0 

Q 

D 

D 

n 


Covers  damaged  / 

Cou  .wfture  endommagee 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couvetture  restaur^  et/ou  pellicula 

Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  g^ographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (l.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (I.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustratioiis  / 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Sound  with  other  material  / 
nam  avec  d'autres  documents 

Only  edition  available  / 
Seule  edition  disponible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  Interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serr^e  peut 
causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorslon  le  long  de 
la  marge  intdrieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoratnns  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have 
been  omitled  from  filming  /  II  se  peut  que  certaines 
pages  blanches  ajouttes  lors  d'une  restauration 
appantaent  dans  le  texle,  mais,  kxsque  cela  «tait 
poasUe,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  M  fUmies. 


L'Institut  a  microfii.m*  le  meilleur  examplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
et6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire  qui  sont  peut-etre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modifications  dans  la  m6th- 
ode  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqufe  ci-dessous. 

I     I      Coloured  pages/ Pages  de  couleur 

I     I      Pages  damaged ,'  Pages  endommagees 

I     I      Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
— '      Pages  restaurSes  et/ou  pellicul^es 

r7|      Pages  discotoured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  decolortes,  tachetAes  ou  piquies 


D 
0 
[Zf 

D 

D 


n 


Pages  detached  /  Pages  d«tach4es 

Showthrough  /  Transparence 

Quality  of  print  varies  / 
Quality  inegale  de  I'lmpression 

Includes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

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slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  returned  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image  /  Les  pages 
totalement  ou  partiellement  obscurcies  par  un 
feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure,  etc.,  ont  M6  filmtes 
h  nouveau  de  fajon  k  obtenir  la  meilleure 
Imager 


Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the 
best  possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant 
ayant  des  colorations  variables  ou  des  decol- 
orations sont  filmtos  ceux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la 
meilleur  image  possible. 


D 


AddttkxHl  comments  / 
Commentaires  suppMtnentaJres: 


Thii  inm  h  liim«t  at  tht  rtdueiion  rnio  ehecfctd  bekw/ 

C*  docmmnt  nt  filmi  tu  taux  dt  rMuction  indiwii  ci-dnsous. 


lOX 

14X 

1IX 

22X 

»X 

»X 

D 

/ 

— 

n 

tjx 

1«X 

20X 

24), 

7ltX 

15* 

The  copy  fllmad  h«r«  has  baan  raproduead  thanka 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

McLennan  Library 

McGill  University 

Montreal 

Tha  imagaa  appearing  hai«  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poaalbia  conaidaring  tha  condition  and  iaglbility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  liaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apacificationa. 


L'axampiaira  filmt  fut  raproduit  grica  i  la 
Qtntro»\tt  da: 

McLennan  Library 

McGill  Unl«anity 

Montreal 

Laa  imagaa  aulvantaa  ont  ttt  raproduitaa  avae  la 
plua  grand  aoln,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axampiaira  film*,  at  an 
eonformitt  avac  laa  eonditlona  du  contrat  da 
flimaga. 


Original  copiaa  in  printad  papor  covara  ara  flimad 
baginning  with  tha  front  eovar  and  anding  on 
tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad  or  iliuatratad  impraa- 
(ion,  or  tha  bacii  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  flimad  baginning  on  tha 
firat  paga  with  a  printad  or  iliuatratad  Impraa- 
lion,  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  Iliuatratad  impraaaion. 


Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couvartuni  an 
paplar  aat  ImprimAa  tont  filmia  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  aoit  par  la 
darnltra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaalon  ou  d'llluatration.  aoit  par  la  tacond 
plat,  aaion  la  caa.  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplairaa 
originaux  aont  filmta  an  comman9ant  par  la 
pramitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
dimpraaaion  ou  d'illuatration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 


Tha  laat  racordad  frama  on  aach  microflcha 
ahall  contain  tha  aymbol  ^^  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  aymbol  V  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appiiaa. 


Un  daa  aymbolaa  auivanta  apparaltra  sur  la 
darnitra  imaga  da  chaqua  microflcha.  salon  la 
caa:  la  symbola  — »  aignifia  "A  SUIVRE ",  la 
aymbola  ▼  aignifia  "FIN". 


Mapa,  piataa,  charta,  ate.,  may  ba  flimad  at 
diffarant  raductlon  ratloa.  Thoaa  too  larga  to  ba 
antlraly  includad  in  ana  axpoaura  ara  flimad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  eomar,  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framoa  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrama  llluatrata  tha 
mathod: 


Laa  cartaa,  planchaa,  tabiaaux,  ate,  pauvant  ttra 
flimia  i  daa  taux  da  rMuction  difftranta. 
Loraqua  la  documant  aat  trop  grand  pour  ttra 
raproduit  an  un  aaul  cllchi,  11  aat  filmt  i  partir 
da  I'angia  aupiriaur  gaucha,  da  gaucho  i  droita, 
at  da  haut  an  baa,  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'Imagaa  nteaaaaira.  Laa  diagrammaa  auivanta 
IHuatrant  la  mtthoda. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MKxocorr  iesoiution  tist  chart 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


M     /APPLIED  IIVMGE     Inc 

1653  East  Moin  Strwt 

Rochvitar,   New   York         1*609       USA 

(716)   4B2  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)  266-5989  -  Fo« 


•HE  »TOOO  WATCHING 


THE  RISE  AND  DIP  OPTHE  «TEAMEII»  "OW 


Publiihed  bj  arrangement  with  Harpw  ft  Brothen, 


Th*    lnn< 


71772036 


»"    ■hrli 


niwil(|<,  i«ol,  ifD^  |>7  Raiiu  a  Bionnn. 


Pihlidwd  Hit.  19119. 


THE  INNER   SHRINE 


THE    INNER    SHRINE 


'THOUGH  Ae  had  counted  the  stroke,  of  every 
1   hour  ,„ce   midnight.  Mrs.  Eveleth  had  „^ 

&*1^"^«.S''^'^-    When  she  Jsltsfttin! 
b^  upnght.  mdrfFenent  to  comfort,  in  one  o(Z. 

the  aid  of  her  cane,  up  and  down  the  lone  suite  of 
-akns.  hstening  for  the  sound  of  wheeirihe  k^.^^ 
Aat  Geoige  and  Diane  ^uld  be  suq,rised  to  S 
her  waitmg  up  for  them,  and  that  they  might  ev^„ 
be  annoyed;  but  in  her  state  of  dreadTt  was 7^ 

''Tk  ''  *"./!"  "  ■""'»  considerations. 
She  could  hardly  tell  how  this  presentiment  of 

o  It  must  have  come  as  imperceptibly  as  L  fir«i 
flicker  of  dusk  acn,ss  the  radiance  of  L  aftemiT* 
1-kmgback.  she  could  almost  make  her^lJbX; 

ftction  m  her  son's  marriage  to  Diane.    Certainly 
*e  had  felt  «  there  before  their  honeymoon  wal 


5^-^55 


T_H  E     INNER      S  H  P  r  w  .^ 

over.  The  four  year,  that  had  passed  since  then 
had  been  spent— or,  at  least,  she  would  have  said 
•o  now— in  waiting  for  the  peril  to  present  itself. 

And  yet,  had  she  been  called  on  to  explain  why 
«he  saw  it  stalking  thio»gh  the  darkness  of  thn 
^cular  Jane  night,  she  would  have  fotmd  h 
difficult  to  give  coherent  statement  to  her  fear 
Eveiythuig  about  her  was  pursuing  its  nonnaUy 
restless  round,  with  scarcely  a  hint  of  the  exceii 

2°"  ;  ^^  Y"^  ^''"*  ^^  ^"'•''"g  "P  again  to 
that  fevcnsh  cKinax  in  which  the  season  dies,  it 
^s  only  what  she  had  witnessed  every  year  since 
*e  last  days  of  the  Second  Empire.  If  Diane's 
^yety  was  that  of  excitement  rather  than  of  youth 
if  George's  depression  was  that  of  jaded  effort  rather 
*an  of  satiated  pleasure,  it  was  no  more  than  she 
had  seen  in  them  at  other  times.  She  acknowledged 
mat  she  had  few  facts  to  go  upon— that  she  had 
mdfeed  httle  more  than  the  terrified  prescience  which 
warns  the  animal  of  a  storm. 

There  were  moments  of  her  vigil  v(*en  she  tried 
to  reassure  herself  widi  the  very  tenuity  of  her  rea- 
»om  for  alarm.  It  was  a  comfort  to  think  how 
little  A^re  was  that  she  could  state  with  the  definite- 

first  days  of  thetr  Hfe  together.  If,  on  Diane's  part, 
*e  spontaneity  of  wtdded  fove  had  graduafly  C 
«»tMe  the  adroitness  of  domestic  tact,  there  wa. 

2 


T  HE 

::: "  '-^  -^  -t  iv  Jg 

"Sa^Lf  7f 'Xi-  ^-  Eveleth'.  own  power 
D;3n..'e   P    •  •  **^''  "'^^  extravagance  of 

Evdeth's™:ipX  >;  "sr '"'  ^• 

undoubtedly  lanrp  ,„A  f      »   J  . "'*  ">come  was 
uureaiy  large,  and,  for  all  she  knew,  it  iuitif-A 

?!  '"""P:"°"^  '''y'^  Diane  and  he  kepTLp  '  Me^e 
Ae  purchasing  power  of  money  beg^  J„d  end^ 
was  something  she  had  never  kno^      Di^^A 
was  so  frequentin  her  own  affairs  thar^he„Ge 
pw  up  she  had  been  glad  to  re^'^^J        '°u^^ 

n^I.g.ble  quantiy  in  such  housekeeping  as  Aev 

the  splendid  Cst  M«  EvS  ^^^^  ''"^'^ 
her  husband  could  never' have  r  7-'  ?'""*  *« 
haveb^i,,.  whileXieXrihr:^ 
now  George,  who  led  th».  i;f»  „f     n    •  •  ' 

ras^j.  i  havefl  *;  Sf: l^r^d^ gTojf 

her  Aought  for  that.  She  distiL  her  So"  ^ 
Ae  living  atmosphere  around  her.  She  was  no 
novice  ,n  this  brilliant,  dissolute  society  or  J,  th^ 
meanings  hidden  behind  its  appareniyVvJal  J^ 
3 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

cems.  Hints  that  would  have  had  slight  signifi- 
cance for  one  less  expert  she  found  luminous  with 
suggestion;  and  she  read  by  signs  as  faint  as  those 
in  whicii  the  redskin  detects  the  passage  of  his 
foe  across  the  grass.  The  odd  smile  with  which 
Diane  went  out!  The  dull  silence  in  which  George 
came  home!  The  manufactured  conversation!  The 
forced  gayety!  The  startling  pause!  The  effort 
to  begin  again,  and  keep  the  tone  to  one  of  com- 
mon intercourse!  The  long  defile  of  guests!  The 
strangers  who  came,  grew  intimate,  and  disap- 
peared! The  glances  that  followed  Diane  when 
she  crossed  a  room!  The  shrug,  the  whisper,  the 
suggestive  grimace,  at  the  mention  of  her  name! 
All  these  were  as  an  alphabet  in  which  Mrs.  Eve- 
leth,  grown  skilful  by  long  years  of  observation, 
read  what  had  become  not  less  familiar  than  her 
mother-tongue. 

The  fact  that  her  misgivings  were  not  new  made 
it  the  more  difficult  to  understand  why  they  had 
focussed  themselves  to-night  into  this  great  fear. 
There  had  been  nothing  unusual  about  the  day, 
except  that  she  had  seen  little  of  Diane,  while 
George  had  remained  shut  up  in  his  room,  writing 
letters  and  arranging  or  dest.oying  papers.  There 
had  been  nothing  out  of  the  common  in  either  of 
them — not  even  the  frown  of  care  on  George's  fore- 
head, or  the  excited  light  in  Diane's  eyes — as  they 
drove  away  b  the  evening,  to  dine  at  the  Spanish 
4 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
Embassy.  They  had  kissed  her  tenderly,  but  it 
was  not  t.11  after  they  had  gone  that  it  seemed  to 
her  as  If  they  had  been  taking  a  farewell.  Then 
too  other  little  tokens  suddenly  became  ominous.' 
while  somethmg  within  herself  seemed  to  say 
Ihe  hour  is  at  hand  I" 

The  hour  is  at  hand!  Standing  in  the  middle  of 
one  of  the  gorgeous  rooms,  she  repeated  the  words 
i»ftly  markmg  as  she  did  so  their  incongruity  to 
herself  and  her  surroundings.  The  note  of  fatality 
jarred  on  the  harmony  of  this  well-ordered  life  It 
was  preposterous  that  she,  who  had  always  been 
hedged  round  and  sheltered  by  pomp  and  circum- 
stance, should  now  in  her  middle  age  be  menaced 
with  calamity.  She  dragged  herself  over  to  one  of 
the^long  mirrors  and  gazed  at  her  reflection  pity- 

The  twitter  of  birds  startled  her  with  the  know}- 
edge  that  it  was  dawn.    From  the  Embassy  Georw 
and  Diane  were  to  go  on  to  two  or  three  great 
houses,  but  surely  they  should  be  home  by  this 
nmel    The  reflection  meant  the  renewal  of  her 
fear.     Where  was  her  son.?    Was  he  really  with 
his  wife,  or  had  the  moment  come  when  he  must 
take  the  law  into  his  own  hands,  after  their  French 
manner,   to   avenge   himself  or  her?    She  knew 
nothing  about  duelling,  but  she  had  the  Angles 
Saxon  mother's  dread  of  it.     She  had  always  hoped 
that,   lotwithstanding  the  social  code  under  which 
5 


t  B  E  I  N  N  E  R  SHRINK 
he  lived,  George  would  keep  clear  of  any  sudk 
bratal  senselessness;  but  lately  she  had  begun  n» 
fear  that  the  convenuons  of  the  world  would  pror* 
the  stronger,  and  that  the  time  when  they  would 
do  so  was  not  far  away. 

Pulling  back  the  curtains  from  one  of  the  win- 
dows, she  opened  it  and  stepped  out  on  a  balcony, 
where  the  long  strip  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay  stretched 
below  her,  in  gray  and  silent  emptiness.  On  die 
swift,  leaden-colqred  current  of  the  Seine,  spanned 
here  and  there  by  ghostly  bridges,  mysterious  barges 
plied  weirdly  through  the  twilight.  Up  on  the  left 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe  began  to  emerge  dimly  out  of 
night,  while  down  on  the  right  the  line  of  the  Louvre 
lay,  black  and  sinister,  beneath  the  towers  and 
spires  that  famtly  detached  themselves  against  the 
growing  saffron  of  the  morning.  High  above  all 
else,  the  domes  of  the  Sacred  Heart  were  white  with 
die  rays  of  the  unriswi  sun,  like  those  of  the  City 
which  came  down  from  God. 

It  was  so  different  from  the  cheerful  Pans  of 
broad  daylight  that  she  was  drawing  back  with  a 
shudder,  when  over  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde  she 
discerned  the  approach  of  a  motor-brougham. 

Closing  the  window,  she  harried  to  the  suirway. 
It  was  still  night  within  the  house,  and  the  one 
dectric  light  left  burning  drew  forth  dull  ^eaAn 
from  the  wrough -metal  arabesques  of  the  splen- 
didly sweepmg  balustrades.    When,  on  the  ringing 


THE      INNER      S  H  P   r  at  t. 
i.^^}'u    *'  ^'^'  °P*"*^  »"«'  "he  went  down. 

Though   she  recalled  that  impression  in  after 
years,  for  the  moment  she  saw  nothing  but  Diane 
ll  TVfu  V"  *\""  °''"""g  the%oluminou; 

"Bonjour  petite  merel"  Diane  called,  with  a 
nervous  laugh,  as  Mrs.  Eveleth  paused  on  the 
lower  steps  of  the  stairs, 

"Where  is  George?" 

She  could  not  keep  the  tone  of  anxiety  out  of  her 
vo.ce.  but  D,ane  answered,  witl,  ready  briskness 

home?'^'  *'°"'    '^"°^-     "^''»''    ''«    <=on^ 

"You  must  know  he  hasn't  come  home.  Weren 
you  together?" 

"We  we.e  together  till-let  me  seel-whose 
house  was  a. ^-tiU  after  the  cotillon  at  Madame  JJ 

Jockey  Qub  w.th  Monsieur  de  Melcourt,  while  I 
drove  on  to  the  Rochefoucaulds'." 

She  turned  away  toward  the  dining-room,  but  it 
was  .nr.poss.ble  not  to  catch  the  tremor  in  her  voice 

Z\^V  :T°'''-     ^"  ^"  '^'y  English  there 
was  9  sl|ght  foreign  mtonation,  as  well  as  that  trace 

tJ^A-         =";«''^^»»i<^''  qui^Wy  yields  tt,  emotion. 

Standing  at  the  table  in  the  dining-room  where  n. 

7 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
freshments  had  been  laid,  she  poured  out  a  glass  of 
w.ne  and  Mr.  Eveleth  could  see  from  the  thresh- 
old  that  she  drank  it  thirstily,  as  one  who  before 
eveiything  else  needs  a  stimulant  to  keep  her  up 
At  the  entrance  of  her  mother-in-law  she  was  on 
her  guard  agam,  and  sank  languidly  Into  the  near- 
est chair. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  hungryl"  she  yawned,  pulling  off 

her  gloves,  and  pretending  to  nibble  at  a  sandwich. 

Uo  sit  down,    she  went  on,  as  Mrs.  Eveleth  re- 

•named    standing.      "I    should    tliink    you'd    be 

hungry,  too."  ^ 

^•JAren't  you  surprised   to  see  me  sitting  up, 

iau' hid""''  '''"  ^  ""  '"''  '^*^"'''  ""^  '="^"  °'""« 

At  the  nonchalance  of  the  reply  Mrs.  Eveleth 

r"'  u"u  T""!^'  *'='"■  ''*="'^^«^-  Was  it  possible 
that  she  had  only  conjured  up  a  waking  nightmare, 
and  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  after 
allf  Possessing  the  French  quality  of  frankness 
to  an  unusual  degree,  it  was  difficult  for  Diane  to 
act  a  part  at  any  time.     With  all  her  Parisian  finesse 

^LTTa  Tc".  ^''^  '"  H^^ir^g.  while  her 
glance  had  that  fulness  of  candor  which  can  never 
be  assumed.  Looking  at  he.  now,  with  her  elbow, 
on  the  table  and  the  sandwich  daintily  poised  be- 
tween  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  her  right  hand. 
»t  was  hard  to  connect  her  with  tragic  possibilides. 

O 


THE  INNER  S  H  R  I  n  £ 
There  were  pearls  around  her  neck  and  diamonds 
m  her  hair;  but  to  the  wholesomeness  of  her  per- 
jonahty  jewds  were  no  more  than  dew  on  the 
tresbness  of  a  summer  morning. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  surprised  to  find  me  sitting 
up  Mrs.  Eveleth  began  again;  "but  the  truth  is,  I 
couldn't  go  to  bed  while—" 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't,"  Diane  broke  in,  with  an 
evident  intention  to  keep  the  conversation  in  her 
ownhai.ds.  "I'm  not  in  the  least  sleepy.  I  could 
s.t  here  and  talk  till  moming-though  I  suppose 
Its  morning  now.  Really  the  time  to  live  is  be- 
tween  midnight  and  six  o'clock.  One  has  a  whole 
set  of  emotions  then  that  never  come  into  play  dur- 
ing the  other  eighteen  hours  of  the  day.  They  say 
"8  the  mmute  when  the  soul  comes  nearest  to 
partmg  with  the  body,  so  I  suppose  that's  the  rea- 
son we  can  see  things,  during  the  wee  sma'  hous. 
by  the  light  of  the  invisible  spheres." 
world—""'''  ^^  1«"te  content  with  the  light  of  this 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't,"  Diane  broke  In,  with  renewed 
eagerness  to  talk  against  time.    "It's  like  beinE 
content  with  words  and  having  no  need  of  music 
It  s  like  being  satisried  with  photographs,  and  never 
wanting  real  pictures." 

"Diane,"  Mrs.  Eveleth  interrupted,  "I  insist  that 
you  let  me  speak." 

"Speak,  petite  mere?    What  are  you  doing  but 
9 


THE     INNER      S  H  P  r  rj  n 

speaking  now?  I'm  scarcely  saying  a  word.  Pa 
«o  ured  to  talk.  If  you'd  ^p  J  ie  lasrSght  « 
ten  hours  tiyuig  to  get  yourself  down  to  the  con- 
v«^uo„,I  level  of  your  partners,  you'd  ^ZiZ 
I  ye  been  through.  We  women  must  be  made  3 
«^^.^tandi.    If  you  had  only  seen  mfth^ 

timetrth".'""' '''"""'  '""'^J'"''^    ™''"- 
JJokel    I  never  felt  less  Kke  joking  in  my  Kfe^ 

She  broke  off  with  a  litde  hysterical  gasp,  so  that 
Mrs.  Eveleth  got  another  chance. 

do7  ''tiT  ^°"  ''""''/^  ^^^  ■'='^'"&  '>"«'  «ai  '«• 

ao  I.      1  here  s  somethmg  wrong  " 
«JlL*r^.r^rr    ^■=»'« -"ad*  »n  effort  «. 
berause  I  need  4e  bracing  effect  of  a  litde  scandal.'' 
Isn  t  ,t  for  you  to  teU  me  ?    You're  conceaUne 
somedjing  of  which—"  '"aung 

"Oh.  petite  mere,  is  diat  quite  honest?    Fint. 
you  say  d,eres  something  wrong;  and  Aen.when 

secret.    Thats  what  you  call  ^n  English  a  sell 

oft™"'  ."^""l  What  a  funny  litlelrdlf 
otten  wonder  who  mvents  the  slang.  Pam,« 
P^  K  along,  of  course,  but  it  must' take  ,^ 
ckvemess  to  start  it.  And  isn't  it  curious."  Z 
wttit  on,  breaAlessly.  "how  a  new  bit  of  slang 


TB  E     INNER     S  H  R  T  K  » 

•hrays  fUU  a  vacant  place  !n  the  language?  The 
mflnite  you  hear  it  jrou  know  it's  what  you've  al- 
ways wanted.  Isui  <we  the  reason  we're  phhW 
to  use  the  current  phrase  is  because  it  expresses  die 
current  need.  When  the  hour  passes,  the  need 
passes  with  it,  and  something  new  must  be  coined 
to  meet  the  new  situation.  I  should  think  a  most 
mterestmg  book  might  be  written  on  the  Psychologr 
of  blang.  and  if  I  wasn't  so  busy  with  other  things—^' 
Diane,  I  entreat  you  to  answer  me.  Where  i» 
Ueorger 

"Why,  I  must  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  hf 
went  to  the  Jockey  Qub  with  Monsieur  de  Mel- 
coun — 

"You  did  tell  me  so;  but  that  isn't  all.  Has  he 
gone  anywhere  else  ?" 

"How  should  I  know,  petite  mere?  Where 
should  he  go  but  come  home  f" 

"Has  he  gone  to  fight  a  duel  f" 

The  question  surprised  Diane  into  partiaHy 
droppmg  her  mask.  For  an  instant  she  was  pui 
zled  for  an  answer. 

"Men  who  fight  duels,"  she  said,  at  last,  "don't 
generally  tell  their  wives  beforehand." 

"But  did  George  tell  you?" 

Again  Diane  hesitated  before  speaking. 

"What  a  queer  question  I"  was  all  she  could  find 
to  say. 

"It's  a  question  I  have  a  right  to  ask." 


"But  have  I  a  right  to  answer?" 
he  hasr  '°"  '  *"--•  y°-  J"ve  :„e  to  infer  that 

-^^niaVS;^^  Tee'r  ^^^-"^  "^ 
way?"  •''  ""   meeting  trouble  haJA 

"I  must  meet  trouble  as  iV  ~,~ 

"But  not  before  k^Zs    %T'  "^  ""'" 

"It  has  come.     It's Zf'   /    '  '  ""^  P""*"" 

«»"«  to  fight.    You  know  it     Y  ""'''■'■'•    "'*'» 

Oh.  Diane,  if  he  com^ Th,n«\°"  m   ''"'*  ^•'"• 

on  your  head."     .  ^'•™  *"*  '''«»d  will  be 

s.SS,.^'"'^^'' ^^-''°"'''-.  and  toot  another 

'I  don't  see  that     Tr.  »i.    /• 
unlikely  there'll  be  any  b,  *J  f^a?'"''  "'^  'J'"'* 
»  very  little.     One  of  L  tW„«  T    7*'  '"°"'  *»" 
our  men.  especially-rtJe   ^  "^'"''"  '"  "«=''- 
with  which  they  aven^;  lirT"'""""  ""^  '=°""8« 
the  minimum  of  damte  Zv       ^""'''''^  '"'* 
It  must  requite  a  g;:at'^detrof7wi  '"if "«  '^ 
should  never  have  the  nerve  for  if    T    J  ^f *""  ' 

-Th.,  mate  »o  „L     ."™',^''''™'"" 


,i 


I  I 


THE      INNER      SHRINB 

10  George.     He's  an  excellent  shot— and  I  belier* 
it  was  to  be  pistols." 

"Then  it's  truel  Oh,  my  God,  I  know  I  shal 
lose  him!" 

Mrs.  Eveleth  flung  her  cane  to  the  floor  and 
dropped  into  a  seat,  leaning  on  the  table  and  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  hands.  For  a  minute  she 
moaned  harshly,  but  when  she  looked  up  her  eyes 
were  tearless. 

"And  this  is  my  reward,"  she  cried,  "for  the 
kindness  I've  shc^i  you!  After  all,  you  are  noth- 
ing but  a  wanton." 

Diane  kept  her  self-control,  but  she  grew  pale. 

"That's  odd,"  was  all  she  permitted  herself  to 
say,  delicately  flicking  the  crumbs  from  her  finger- 
tips; "because  it  was  to  prove  t'le  contrary  that 
Cleorge  called  Monsieu-  de  Bienville  out." 

"Bienville!     You've  stooped  to  him?'" 

"Did  I  say  so?"  Diane  asked,  witli  a  sudden 
significant  lifting  of  the  head. 

"There's  no  need  to  say  so.  There  must  have 
been  something — " 

"There  teas  something — something  Monsieur 
de  Bienville  invented." 

"  Wasn't  it  a  pity  for  him  to  go  to  the  trouble  of 
invention — •  ?" 

"When  he  could  have  found  so  much  that  was 
true,"  Diane  finished,  with  dangerous  quietness. 
"That's  what  you  were  going  to  say,  isn't  it?" 
13 


THE     INNER      S  H  H  T  m  ^ 

"You  have  no  right  to  ascribe  words  to  me  that 
I  haven't  uttered.     I  never  said  so." 

"No;  that's  true;  I  prefer  to  say  it  for  you.     It's 
sater.  ,n  that  it  leaves  me  nothing  to  resent." 

Oh,  what  shall  I  do!  What  shall  I  dol"  Mrs. 
tveleth  moaned,  wringing  her  hands.  "  My  boy  is 
gpne  from  me.  He  will  never  come  back  I've 
always  been  sure  that  if  he  ever  did  this,  it  would 
be  the  end.  It's  my  fault  for  having  brought 
h4m  up  among  your  foolish,  hot-headed  people. 

"No;  not  that,"  Diane  corrected;  "not  even  if 
tne  worst  comes  to  the  worst." 

"What  do  you  mean.?  If  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst,  he  will  have  sacrificed  himself-" 

the  lT.7  ^T°'''   T^  ^'°'Se  himself  would  be 
the  first  to  tell  you  that  it's  worth  dying  for  " 

U.ane  rose  as  she  spoke.  Mrs.  Eveleth  following 
her  example.  For  a  brief  instant  they  stood  as  if 
measurmg  each  other's  strength,  rill  they  started 
with  a  simultaneous  shock  at  the  sharp  call  of  the 
telephone  from  an  adjoining  room.     With  a  smoth- 

as  though  frozen  to  the  spot.  ^ 

«Oui-K>ui-<5ui."  came  Diane's  voice,  speaking 
^gerly.    "Oui,  c'est  bien  Madame  Gcor^  EveleA 
Ou,.ou..     Non.     Jecomprends.     C'est  Monsieur 

«4 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

de  Mekourt.  Oui— oui—  Dites-le-moi  tout  de 
suite— j'insiste—    Oui— oui.     Ah-h-h!" 

The  last,  prolonged,  choking  exclamation  came 
as  the  cry  of  one  who  sinks,  smitten  to  the  heart. 
Mrs.  Eveleth  was  able  to  move  at  last.  When  she 
reached  the  other  room,  Diane  was  crouched  in  a 
little  heap  on  the  floor. 

"  He's  dead  ?  He's  dead  ?"  the  mother  cried,  in 
frenzied  questioning. 

But  Diane,  with  ^azed  eyes  and  paned  lips, 
could  only  nod  her  head  in  affirmation. 


DURING  the  days  immediately  following  Geonj, 
found  rr  ^""'^  *^  "^°  ^°"«"  ^ho  'oved  hZ 

with  L.rs:^^^zystT^i-^p:z 

?Seth  di::,*%'"S^'^>'  ^'"^  '^^^^'J  °f.  'hat  Mrs 
i-I!!  T  P  ^'"'^  unexpected  strength  of  char- 
'h  kra„7r  '  ""^"-"f  ™on  kn^owledgelae 
«he  shrank  from  none  of  the  terrible  details  it  was 
necessary  to  supervise,  and  that  she  was  capaHe 
of  g.vmg  her  attention  to  her  son's  practical  affair 

It  was  not  till  a  fortnight  had  passed  that  he 
y  r"'^"  "-"e  face  to  face  alone.  The  few 
occasions  on  which  they  had  met  hitherto  had  be^I 
those  of  solemn  public  mourning,  when  the  z^. 
questions  between  diem  necessar  Iv  „"  .f^^ 
toucheH      Tl,»  J    •  necessarily  remamed  un- 

to both  for  •  ?"'"■'  '°  ^''P  "P^«  ^as  common 
to  both  for  neither  was  sufficiently  mistress  o(  her 
self  to  be  ready  for  a  meeting. 

The  first  move  came  from  Diane.     During  hei 
lonfr  speechless  days  of  self- upbraiding  ^frta^ 
i6 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

dioughts  had  been  slowly  forming  themselves  into 
resolutions;  but  it  was  on  impulse  rather  than  re- 
flection that,  at  last,  she  summoned  up  strength 
to  knock  at  Mrs.  Eveleth's  door. 

She  entered  timidly,  expecting  to  find  some  mani- 
festation of  grief  similar  to  her  own.  She  was  sur- 
pnsed,  therefore,  to  see  her  mother-in-law  sitting  at 
her  desk,  with  a  number  of  businesshke  papers  be- 
fore her.  She  held  a  pencil  between  her  fingers, 
and  was  evidently  in  the  act  of  adding  up  long  rows 
of  figures. 

"Oh,  come  in,"  she  said,  briefly,  as  Diane  ap- 
peared.   "Excuse  me  a  minute.     Sit  down." 

Diane  seated  herself  by  an  open  window  looking 
out  on  the  garden.  It  was  a  hot  morning  toward 
the  end  of  June,  and  from  th;  neighboring  streets 
came  the  dull  rumble  of  Paris.  Beyond  the  gar- 
den, through  an  opening,  she  could  see  a  procession 
of  carnages— probably  a  wedding  on  its  way  to 
Sainte-Clotilde.  It  was  her  first  realizing  glimpse 
of  the  outside  world  since  that  gray  morning  when 
she  had  driven  home  alone,  and  the  very  fact  that 
it  could  be  pursuing  its  round  indifferent  to  her 
calamity  impelled  her  to  turn  her  gaze  away. 

It  was  then  that  she  had  time  to  note  the  changes 
wrought  in  Mrs.  Eveleth;  and  it  was  like  finding 
winter  where  she  expected  no  more  than  the  first 
genial  touch  of  autumn.  The  softnesses  of  linger- 
ing youth  had  disappeared,  stricken  out  by  the 
>7 


THE     INNER      S  H  R  7  AT  « 

fc^llT'^'".'"^  ."^  gravity.  Never  having 
known  her  mother-m-Iaw  as  other  than  a  womaf 
of  fashicn,  Diane  was  awed  by  this  dignified,  sor- 
rowing matron,  who  carried  the  sword  of  mother- 
nood  in  her  heart. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Mrs.  Eveleth  laid  her 
penal  down  and  raised  her  head.  For  a  few  min- 
utes neither  had  the  power  of  words,  but  it  was 
Uiane  who  spoke  at  last. 

"I   can   understand."   she   faltered,   "that  you 
don  t  want  to  see  me;   but  I've  come  to  teU  you 
mat  1  m  going  away. 
"You're  going  away  ?    Where ?" 

absence  of  mmd.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Eveleth 
was  scarcely  thinking  of  Diane's  words-she  wa. 
so  intent  on  the  poor  little,  tear-worn  face  before 
her^  She  had  always  known  that  Diane's  attractions 
were  Aose  of  colonng  and  vivacity,  and  now  that 
she  had  lost  these  she  was  like  an  extinguished  lamp. 

Dl. J  "^?^  "P  ""^  "'■'"'  y^''"  Diane  L 

plied,  but  I  want  you  to  know  that  you'U  be  freed 
from  my  presence." 
"What  makes  you  think  I  want  to  be-freed?" 
You  must  know  that  I  WUed  George.  You 
said  that  night  that  his  blood  would  be  on  my 
head— and  it  is."  ' 

"If  I  said  that.  I  spoke  under  the  stress  of  tern« 
iOd  excitement — " 


TAB.      INNER      SHRINE 

"Yon  needn't  tiy  to  take  back  the  words;  they 
were  quite  true." 
"Tme  in  what  sense  i" 

"In  almost  eveiy  sense;  certainly  in  eveiy  sense 
dial's  vital.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  George 
would  be  here  now." 

"It's  never  wise  to  speculate  on  what  might  have 
happened  if  it  hadn't  been  for  us.    There's  no  end 
to  the  useless  torture  we  can  inflict  on  ourselves  in 
that  way," 
"I  don't  tliink  there  ought  to  be  an  end  to  it." 
"Have  you  anything  in  particular  to  reproach 
jroarselfwith?" 
"I've  eveiything." 

"That  means,  then,  that  there's  no  one  incident 
—or  person—  I  didn't  know  but—"  She  hesi- 
tated, and  Diane  took  up  the  sentence. 

"You  didn't  know  but  what  I  had  given  George 
specific  reason  for  his  act.     I  may  as  well  tell  you 
that  I  never  did— at  least  not  in  the  sense  in  which 
you  mean  it.     George  always  knew  that  I  loved 
him,  and  that  I  was  true  to  him.     He  trusted  me, 
and  was  justified  in  doing  so.     It  wasn't  that.     It 
was  the  whole  thing — the  whole  life.     There  wa» 
nothmg  worthy  in  it  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 
I  played  with  fire,  and  while  George  knew  it  was 
only  playing,    j  was  fire  all  the  same." 
"But  you  say  you  were  never — burnt." 
"tfl  wasn't,  others  were.     I  led  men  on  dH  tlwjr 
19 


THE      INNER      s  M  n  r  m  ^ 
thought-till  they  thought-I  don't  know  how  to 

"Precisely;   and  Bienville  was  one  of  them      It 

w,?,  r?u'"  f""  °f  Aingsf-and  then  when  I 
was  tired  of  h,m,  I  turned  him  into  ridicule.  I  took 
advantage  of  his  folly  to  make  him  the  laughing- 

1^^i1,aT'  T'^  '°  ^^^"Se  himself  he  lied^  ffe 
said  I  had  been  h.s-    No;   I  can't  tell  you." 

n^i  .""n"'"^'"'-  '^°"  """'■"''  **="  >"«.  You 
needn  t  tell  me  any  more." 

■JJt^'^  ''"'t'  '""'''  •""'"  *°  *""  *=>'  I  «n  put 
mto  words     It  was  always-just  like  that-jus 
as  .t  was  wth  Bienville.     He  wasn't  the  only  T 

ch^ted  "Ty  "  ''"r''"^  '  S^*"^  '"  -^•^''  i 

Cheated.     I  was  never  fair  to  any  of  them      It', 

£  B  '^-^f  *r  r''^  °*^^^  -re'more  holrab 
than  Bienville  that's  kept  what  has  happened  now 
from  having  happened  long  ago.  It  might  ha^ 
come  at  any  time  I  thought  it  a  iine  thfng  to  b" 
ab  e  to  trifle  with  passion.  I  didn't  know  I  wa, 
only  tnflmg  with  death.  Oh.  if  I  had  been  a  g^d 
^oman.  George  would  have  been  with  us  still  I" 

You  mustn;t  blame  yoursjf,"  the  m',ther-in- 
Uw  said,  .peaking  with,  some  difficulty,  "for  more 
Aan  your  own  share  of  our  troubles  I  wanT" 
«lk  to  you  quite  frankly,  and  tell  you  things  you'v. 

1/s 


THE      I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 
never  known.     The  beginning  of  the  sorrows  that 
have  come  to  us  dates  veiy  far  back-back  to  a 
nme  before  you  were  bom." 
"Oh?" 

Diane's  brown  eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  opened 
wide  m  a  sort  of  mournful  curiosity. 

"I  admit,"  Mrs.  Evekth  continued,  "that  in  the 
first  hours  of  our— our  bereavement  I  had  some 
such  thoughts  about  you  as  you've  just  expressed. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  if  you  had  lived  differently 
George  might  have  been  spared  to  us.  It  took 
reflection  to  show  me  that  if  you  had  lived  different- 
ly, George  himself  wouldn't  have  been  satisfied. 
Ihe  life  you  led  was  the  one  he  cared  for— the  one 
I  taught  him  to  care  for.  The  origin  of  the  wrong 
has  to  be  traced  back  to  me." 

"To  you.?"  Diane  uttered  the  words  in  in- 
creasing wonder.  It  was  strange  that  a  first  role 
in  die  drama  could  be  played  by  any  one  but  herself. 
1  ve  always  thought  it  a  little  odd,"  Mrs.  Eve- 
leth  observed,  after  a  brief  pause,  "that  you've 
never  been  interested  to  hear  about  our  family." 

"I  didn't  know  there  was  anything  to  tell," 
Diane  answered,  innocently. 

"I  suppose  there  isn't,  from  your  European 
point  of  view;  but,  as  we  Americans  see  things, 
there  s  a  good  deal  that's  significant.  Foreigners 
care  so  little  about  who  or  what  we  are,  t.o  long  ai 
we  have  money." 

21 


And   I've   n»« 

affairs,"  Dian^  ,«  ^  '''"«  must  be  K.   ■ 

.«_    L-      '^"c  murmured   ft.-  .l         ^  business 
•omething.  '"^*^'''  w  the  sake  of  sav.V 

«J<d  nothing  tut  w.M  '">'  °^  accord      V„ 

I  should  like  to  hear  af, 
sympathetically.    The  „  '^'"''"  D>ane  said 

fo  take  her  nZ    A      "^"^  '"terest  was  hZ      ■    ' 
"M     ■      ^'  "'^  herself  "  oeginnine 

/vjy  husband  and  I "  lu       ^ 


T  E 

5ca- 
■  of 

■ith 
ar. 
ar- 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

much.    I  was  Naomi  de  Ruyter;  my  husband,  on 
IMS  mother's  side,  was  a  Van  Tromp." 

"Really?"  Diane  murmured,  feeling  that  Mrs 
tveleth's  tone  of  pride  required  a  response,  "f 
know  there's  a  Mr.  van  Tromp  here-the  American 
banker. 

"He  is  of  the  same  family  as  my  husband's 
mother.     For  nearly  three  hundred  years  they've 
lived  on  the  island  of  Manhattan,  and  seen  their 
farms  and  pastures  grow  into  the  second  city  in  the 
world      The  world  has  poured  in  on  them,  literally 
in   milhons.     It  would  have  submerged   them  if 
there  hadn't  been  something  in  that  old  stock  that 
couldn  t  be  kept  down.     However  high  the  tide 
rose    they  floated  on  the  top.     My  people  were 
thnfty  and  mdustrious.     They  worked  hard,  saved 
money,  and  lived  in  simple  ways.     They  c-  .ed  lit- 
de  for  pleasure,  for  beauty,  or  for  any  of  the  forms 
ot  art;   but,  on  the  contrary,  they  lived  for  work, 
tor  religion,  for  learning,  and  ail  the  other  high  and 
senous  pursuits.     It  was  fine;  but  I  hated  it  " 
"f^aturally." 

"1  longed  to  get  away  from  it,  and  when  I  mar- 
ried I  persuaded  my  husband  to  give  up  his  pro- 
fession and  his  home  in  order  to  establish  himself 
here. 

"But  surely  you  can't  regret  that.?  You  were 
free." 

"Only  the  selfish  and  the  useless  are  ever  free. 


ness.  or  may  not  be."      '^''~'^'"c''  may  be  happi- 

AiXm?5rNt  •rr:;^-'>'  -cb  ad„.>ed. 
appeared  at  the  Tuilenes  L '  '  '^"^  ^''^'^  you 
H  not  ^    E.;S  -  -  was  .ore  ,rL 

yetlquestionnowifldS  ^'•'^^"Joyed  ";  and 
died,  and  George  was  TlitdVu     ^""  "^  husband 
•ne  last  effort  to  induce  m^."^',  ""^  ^"''''^'  ^ade 
••""g  Wm  up  in  his  „:;": '°  ;:^%''-  baclc.  and 
op-nions.  because  all  ZhT^-     ^  '^nored  their 
from  mine.    J  was  yfu^"  ^'T-^^  -  different 
enamoured  of  the  hfe  I  Tawr     '"'^^P^dent.  and 
^cruples  of  conscience  from  ,   '^"  '°  '^^'^^     ^  had 
.George  grew  up  and  deXlT^''  '"^V''"'  '^''- 
'"  h.m.  I  let  other  consiS.on  "f  ^  ^^''^  ''^^d 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

cause  of  anything  in  yourself,  but  because  you  were 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Ferronaise,  the  last  of  an  illus- 
trious family.  I  looked  upon  the  match  as  a  useful 
al!iance  for  him  and  for  me.  I  encouraged  George 
in  extravagance.  I  encouraged  him  when  he  began 
to  hve  in  a  style  far  more  expensive  than  anything 
to  which  he  had  been  accustomed.  I  encouraged 
him  when  he  built  this  house.  I  wanted  to  impress 
you;  I  wanted  you  to  see  that  the  American  could 
give  you  a  more  splendid  home  than  any  European 
you  were  likely  to  marry,  however  exalted  his  rank. 
I  was  not  without  fears  that  George  was  spending 
too  much  money;  but  we've  always  had  plenty  for 
whatever  we  wanted  to  do;  and  so  I  let  him  go  on 
when  I  should  have  stopped  him.  It  was  my 
vanity.  It  wasn't  his  fault.  He  inherited  a  large 
fortune;  and  if  I  had  only  brought  him  up  wisely, 
it  would  have  been  enough." 

"And  wasn't  it  enough  ?" 

In  spite  of  her  growing  dread,  Diane  brought  out 
the  question  firmly.  Mrs.  Eveleth  sat  one  long 
minute  motionless,  with  hands  clasped,  with  lips 
parted,  and  with  suspended  breath. 

"No." 

The  monosyllable  seemed  to  fill  the  room.  It 
echoed  and  re-echoed  in  Diane's  ears  like  the  boom 
of  a  cannon.  While  her  outward  vision  took  in 
such  details  as  the  despair  in  Mrs.  Eveleth's  face, 
♦he  folds  of  crape  on  her  gown,  the  Watteau  picture 
25 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

TO  the  panel  of  moss  green  and  gold  that  formed 
the  background,  all  the  realities  of  life  seemed  to 
be  dissolving  into  chaos,  as  the  glories  of  the  sunset 
sink  into  a  black  and  formless  mass.  When  Mrs. 
Eveleth  spoke  again,  her  voice  sounded  as  though 
it  came  from  far  away. 

"I  want  to  take  all  the  blame  upon  myself     If 
it  hadn't  been  for  me,  George  would  never  have 
gone  to  such  extremes." 
"Extremes?" 

Diane  spoke  not  so  much  from  the  desire  to  speak 
as  from  the  necessity  of  forcing  her  reeling  intelli- 
gence back  to  the  world  of  fact. 

"I'm  afraid  there's  no  other  word  for  it." 
"Do  you  mean  that  there  are  debts?" 
"A  great  many  debts." 
"Can't  they  be  paid?" 

"Most  of  them  can  be  paid— perhaps  all;  but 
when  that  is  done  I'm  afraid  there  will  be  very 
Utrie  left."  ' 

"But  surely  we  haven't  lived  so  extravagantly  as 
that.  I  know  I've  spent  a  great  deal  of  n-oney— " 
"It  hasn't  been  altogether  the  style  of  living. 
When  my  poor  boy  saw  that  he  was  going  beyond 
his  means  he  tried  to  recoup  himself  by  speculation. 
Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?" 

"I  know  it's  something  by  which  people  lose 
money." 

"He  had  no  experience  of  anything  of  the  kind, 
26 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

"?^ /'"  ™en  of  business  tell  me  he  went  into  it 
wUdly.  He  had  that  optimistic  temperament  which 
always  believes  that  the  next  thing  will  be  a  success 
even  though  the  present  one  is  a  failure.  Then' 
too,  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  unscrupulous  men 
who  made  him  think  that  great  fortunes  were  to  be 
made  out  of  what  they  call  wildcat  schemes,  when 
all  the  time  they  were  leading  him  to  ruin." 

Ruin!    The  word  appealed  to  Diane's  memoiy 
and  imagmation  alike.     It  came  to  her  from  her 
remotest  childhood,  when  she  could  remember  hear- 
ing It  applied  to  her  grandfather,  the  old  Comte  de 
la  Ferronaise.    After  that  she  could  recollect  leav- 
ing the  great  chateau  in  which  she  was  bom,  and 
hving  with  her  parents,  first  in  one  European  capi- 
tal, and  then  in  another.     Finally  they  settled  for  a 
ftvf  years  in  Ireland,  her  mother's  country,  where 
both  her  parents  died.     During  all  this  time,  as 
well  as  in  the  subsequent  years  in  a  convent  at 
Auteuil,  she  was  never  free  from  the  sense  of  ruin 
hanging  over  her.    Though  she  understood  well 
enough  that  her  way  of  escape  lay  in  making  a  rich 
marnage,   it  was   impressed   upon   her  that   the 
meagreness  of  her  </o/ would  make  her  efforts  in  this 
direction  difficult.     When,  within  a  few  months  of 
leaving  the  convent,  she  was  asked  by  George  Eve- 
leth  to  become  his  wife,  it  seemed  as  if  she  '■;  d 
reached  the  end  of  her  cares.     She  had  the  .«ss 
scruple  m  accepting  what  he  had  to  give  in  that 
a? 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

she  honestly  liked  the  generous,  easy-going  man 
who  lived  but  to  gratify  her  whims.  During  the 
four  years  of  her  married  life  she  had  spent  money, 
not  merely  for  the  love  of  spending,  but  from  sheer 
joy  in  the  sense  that  Poverty,  the  arch-enemy,  had 
been  defeated;  and  lo!  he  was  springing  at  her 
again. 

"Ruin!"  she  echoed,  when  Mrs.  Eveleth  had  let 
fall  the  word.  "Do  you  mean  that  we're — 
ruined  f" 

"It  depends  on  how  you  look  at  it.  You  will 
always  have  your  own  small  fonune,  on  which  you 
can  live  with  economy." 

"  But  you  will  have  yours,  too." 
Mrs.  Eveleth  smiled  faindy. 
"No;  I'm  afraid  that's  gone.  It  was  in  George'* 
hands,  and  I  can  see  he  cried  to  increase  it  for  me, 
by  doing  with  it — as  he  did  with  his  own.  I'm  noi 
blaming  him.  The  worst  of  which  he  can  be  ao. 
cused  is  a  lack  of  judgment." 

"But  there's  this  house!"  Diane  urged,  "and  alk 
this  furniture! — and  these  pictures!" 

She  glanced  up  at  the  Watteau,  the  Bouchei;. 
and  the  Fragonard,  which  gave  the  key  to  th* 
decorations  of  the  dainty  boudoir.  The  faint  smile 
still  lingered  on  Mrs.  Eveleth's  lips,  as  it  lingers  on 
the  face  of  the  dead. 

"There'll  be  very  little  left,"  she  repeated. 
"  But  I  don't  understand,"  Diane  piotested,  with 
^8 


T  H  h      I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

a  per  ,Iexed  movement  of  the  hand  across  her  brow. 
"I  dor.  I  :;no  V  rauch  about  business,  but  if  it  were 
explained  to  me  I  think  I  could  follow." 

"Come  and  sit  beside  me  at  the  desk,"  Mrs. 
Eveleth  suggested.  "You  will  understand  better 
if  you  see  the  figures  just  as  they  stand." 

She  went  over  the  main  points,  one  by  one,  using 
the  same  untechnical  simplicity  of  language  which 
George's  men  of  business  had  employed  with  her- 
self. The  facts  could  be  stated  broadly  but  com- 
prehensively. When  all  was  settled  the  Eveleth 
estate  would  have  disappeared.  Diane  would  pos- 
sess her  small  inheritance,  which  was  a  thing  apart 
Mrs.  Eveleth  would  have  a  few  jewels  and  other 
nunor  personal  belongings,  but  nothing  more.  The 
very  completeness  of  the  story  rendered  it  easy  in 
the  telling,  though  th^  largeness  of  the  facts  made 
It  impossible  for  Diane  to  take  them  in.  It  was  an 
almost  unreasonable  tax  on  credulity  to  attempt 
to  think  of  the  tall,  fragile  woman  sitting  before  her, 
with  luxurious  nurture  in  eveiy  pose  of  the  figure, 
in  every  habit  of  the  mind,  as  penniless.  It  was 
trying  to  account  for  daylight  without  a  sun. 

"It  can'i  be!"  Diane  cried,  when  she  had  done 
her  best  to  weigh  the  facts  just  placed  before  her. 

Mrs.  Eveleth  shook  her  head,  the  glimmering 
smile  fixed  on  her  lips  as  on  a  mask. 

"It  is  so,  dear,  I'm  afraid.     We  must  do  our 
best  to  get  used  to  it." 
J  29 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  T  M  P 

"I  shall  never  get  used  to  it,"  Diane  cried,  sprine- 
ing  to  her  feet— "never,  never!" 

"It  will  be  hard  for  you  to  do  without  all  you've 
had— when  you've  had  so  much— but— " 
^  "9h,  it  isn't  that,"  Diane   broke  in,  fiercely. 
It  isn  t  for  me.     I  can  do  well  enough.     It's  for 
you."  ° 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  dear.     I  can  work." 

The  words  were  spoken  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone, 
but  Uiane  recoiled  at  them  as  at  a  sword-thrust. 

"You  can — ^whatf" 

It  was  the  last  touch,  not  only  of  the  horror  oi 
the  situation,  but  of  its  ludicrous  irony. 

"I  can  work,  dear,"  Mrs.  Ev«leth  repeated,  with 
the  poignant  tranquillity  that  smote  Diane  more 
cruelly  than  grief.  "  There  are  many  things  I  could 
do — ■ 

"Oh,  don'tl"  Diane  wailed,  with  pleading  gest- 
ures of  the  hands.  "Oh,  don't!  I  can't  bear  it. 
Dont  say  such  things.  They  kill  me.  There 
must  be  some  mistake.  All  that  money  can't  have 
gone.  Even  if  it  was  only  a  few  hundred  thousand 
francs-  it  would  be  something.  I  will  not  believe 
It.  It  s  too  soon  to  judge.  I've  heard  it  took  a 
long  time  to  settle  up  estates.  How  can  ther  have 
done  It  yet.?" 

"They  haven't     They've  only  seen  its  possibili- 
aes — and  impossibilities." 
"I  will  never  believe  it,"  Diane  burst  out  agaia. 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"I  will  see  those  men.  I  will  tell  them.  I  am 
positive  that  it  cannot  be.  Such  i:,justice  would  not 
be  permitted.  There  must  be  Ian  t,  -there  must  be 
something— to  prevent  such  outrage— especially  on 
you!"  She  spoke  vehemently,  striding  to  and  fro 
in  the  little  room,  and  brushing  b^.ck  from  time  to 
time  the  heavy  brown  hair  that  in  her  excitement 
fell  in  disordered  locks  on  her  forehead.  "  It's  too 
wicked.  It's  too  monstrous.  It's  intolerable.  God 
doesn't  allow  such  things  to  happen  on  earth, 
otherwise  He  wouldn't  be  God!  No,  no;  you  can- 
not make  me  think  that  such  things  happen.  You 
work!  The  Mater  Dolorosa  herself  was  not  called 
upon  to  bear  such  humiliation.  If  God  reigns,  as 
they  say  He  does — " 

"But,  Diane  dear,"  Mrs.  Eveleth  interrupted, 
gently,  "isn't  it  true  that  we  owe  it  to  George's 
memory  to  bear  our  troubles  bravely .?" 

"I'm  ready  to  bear  anything  bravely — but  this." 

"But  isn't  this  the  case,  above  all  others,  in  which 
you  and  I  should  be  unflinching .?  Doesn't  any  lack 
of  courage  on  our  parts  imply  a  reflection  on  him  .?" 

"That's  true,"  Diane  said,  stopping  abruptly. 

"I  don't  know  how  far  you  honor  George's 
memory — .?" 

"George's  memory.?  Why  shouldn't  I  honor 
it?" 

"I  didn't  know.  Some  women — after  what 
you've  just  discovered — " 

3« 


I 


il 


i^  il 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"I  am  mt— some  women!  I  am  Diane  Eveleth. 
Whatever  George  did  I  shared  it,  and  I  share  it 
still." 

"Then  you  forgive  him  f" 

"Forgive  him?— I?— forgive  him?  No!  What 
have  I  to  forgive  ?  Anything  he  did  he  did  for  me 
and  in  order  to  have  the  more  to  give  me — and  I 
love  him  and  honor  him  as  I  never  did  till  now." 

Mrs.  Eveleth  rose  and  stood  unsteadily  beside 
her  desk. 

"God  bless  you  for  saying  that,  Diane." 

"There's  no  reason  why  He  should  bless  me  for 
saying  anything  so  obvious." 

"It  isn't  obvious  to  me,  Diane;  and  you  must 
let  me  bless  you— bless  you  with  the  mother's  bless- 
ing, which,  I  think,  must  be  next  to  God's." 

Then  opening  her  arms  wide,  she  sobbed  the  one 
word  "Comei"  and  they  had  at  last  the  comfort, 
dear  to  women,  of  weeping  in  each  other's  arms. 


in 

IN  thr  private  office  of  the  great  Franco-American 
banking-house  of  Van  Tromp  &  Co.,  the  part- 
ners, having  finished  their  conference,  were  about 
to  separate. 

"That's  all,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Grimston.  He 
rose  with  a  jerky  movement,  which  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  a  httle  figure  shot  out  of  a  box. 

Mr.  van  Tromp  remained  seated  at  the  broad, 
flat-topped  desk,  his  head  bent  at  an  angle  jvhich 
gave  Mr.  Grimston  a  view  of  the  tips  of  shaggy 
eyebrows,  a  broad  nose,  and  that  peculiar  kind  of 
protruding  lower  lip  before  which  timid  people 
quail.  As  there  was  no  response,  Mr.  Grimston 
looked  round  vaguely  on  the  sombre,  handsome 
furnishings,  fixing  his  gaze  at  last  on  the  litho- 
graphed portrait  of  Mr.  van  Tromp  senior,  thi 
ft)under  of  the  hous  ,  hanging  above  the  mantel- 
piece. 

"That's  all,  I  think,"  Mr.  Grimston  repeated, 
raising  his  voice  slighily  in  order  to  drown  the 
nimble  that  came  through  the  open  windows  from 
the  rue  Auber. 

33 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

Suddenly  Mr.  van  Tromp  looked  up. 
"IVe  just  had  a  letter,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  in- 
dicatmg  an  entirely  new  order  of  discussion,  "from 
a  person  who  signs  herself  Diana— or  is  it  Diane  ? 
— Eveleth." 

"Oh,  Dianel    She's  written  to  you,  has  she?" 
came  from  Mr.  Grimston,  as  his  panner  searched 
with  short-sighted  eyes  for  the  letter  in  question 
among  the  papers  on  the  desk. 
"You  know  her,  then  f" 

"Of  course  I  know  her.  You  ought  to  know 
her,  too.  You  would,  if  you  didn't  shut  yourself 
up  m  the  office,  away  from  the  world." 

"N-no,  I  don't  recall  that  I've  ever  met  the 
lady.  Ah,  here's  the  note.  Just  sit  down  a  minute 
while  I  read  it." 

Mr.  Grimston  shot  back  into  his  seat  again, 
while  Mr.  van  Tromp  wiped  his  large,  circuUr 
glasses. 

"'Dear  Mr.  van  Tromp,'  she  begins,  'I  am  most 
anxious  to  talk  to  you  on  veiy  important  business, 
and  would  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you  would  let  me 
call  on  Tuesday  morning  and  see  you  very  privately. 
Yours  sincerely,  Diane  Eveleth.'  That's  all.  Now 
what  do  you  make  of  it  ?"  ' 

The  straight  smile,  which  was  all  the  facial  ex- 
pression Mr.  Grimston  ever  allowed  himself,  be- 
came visible  between  the  lines  of  his  closely  clipped 
«nu«uche  and  beard.    He  took  his  time  before 
34 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

•peaking,  enjoying  the  knowledge  that  t!iis  was  one 
of  aiose  social  junctures  in  which  he  had  his  senior 
partner  so  conspicuously  at  a  disadvantage. 

"It's  a  bad  business,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  as 
though  summing  up  rather  than  beginning. 
"What  does  the  woman  want  with  me?" 
"That,  I  fear,  is  painfully  evident.     You  must 
have  heard  of  the  Eveleth  smash  a  couple  of  months 
ago.     Or— let  me  see!— I  think  it  was  just  when 
you  were  in  New  York.     No;  you'd  be  likely  not 
to  hear  of  it.    The  Eveleths  have  so  carefully  cut 
their  American  acquaintance  for  so  many  years 
that  they've  created  a  kind  of  vacuum  around  them- 
selves, out  of  which  the  noise  of  their  doings  doesn't 
easily  penetrate.     They   belong  to   that  class  of 
American  Parisians  who  pose  for  going  only  into 
French  society." 
"I  know  the  kind." 

"Mrs.  Grimston  could  tell  you  all  about  them,  of 
course.  Equally  at  home  as  she  is  in  the  best 
French  and  American  circles,  she  hears  a  great 
many  things  she'd  rather  not  hear." 
"She  needn't  listen  to  'em." 
"Unfortunately  a  woman  in  her  position,  with 
a  daughter  like  Marion,  is  obliged  to  listen.  But 
that's  rather  the  end  of  the  story — 

"And  I  want  the  beginning,  Grimston,  if  you 
don  t  mmd.  I  want  to  know  why  this  Diane  should 
be  after  me." 

35 


:  [I 

W 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"She's  after  money,"  Mr.  Grimston  declared, 
bluntly.  "She's  after  money,  and  you'd  better  let 
me  manage  her.  It  would  save  you  the  trouble  of 
the  refusal  you'll  be  obliged  to  make." 
"Well,  tell  me  about  her  and  I'll  see." 
Mr.  Grimston  stiffened  himself  in  his  chair  and 
cleared  his  throat. 

"Diane  Eveleth,"  he  stated,  with  slow,  signifi- 
cant emphasis,  "is  an  extremely  fascinating  woman. 
She  has  probably  turned  more  men  round  her  little 
finger  than  any  other  woman  in  Paris." 
"  Is  that  to  her  credit  or  her  discredit  i" 
"I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  Mrs.  Eve- 
leth," Mr.  Grimston  protested.  "  I  wish  she  hadn't 
come  near  us  at  all.  As  it  is,  you  must  be  fore- 
warned." 

"I'm  not  particular  about  that,  if  you'll  give  me 
the  facts." 

"  That's  not  so  easy.  Where  facts  are  so  deucedly 
disagreeable,  a  fellow  finds  it  hard  to  trot  out  any 
poor  little  woman  in  her  weaknesses.  I  must  make 
it  clear  beforehand  that  I  don't  want  to  say  any- 
thing against  her." 

"  It's  in  confidence — privileged,  as  the  lawyers  say.| 
I  sha'n't  think  the  worse  of  her— that  is,  not  much." 
"Poor  Dia.  e,"  Mr.  Grimston  began  again,  sen- 
tentiously,  "is  one  of  the  bits  of  human  wreckage 
that  have  drifted  down  to  us  from  the  pre-revolu' 
donaiy  days  of  French  society.  Her  grandfather, 
36 


TJ^      INNER       S  H  R   T  M_R 

the  old  Comte  de  'a  Ferronaise,  belonged  to  that 
order  of  irreconcilable  royalists  who  persist  in 
dashing  themselves  to  pieces  against  the  rising  wall 
of  democracy.  I  remember  him  perfectly-a  hand- 
some old  fellow,  who  had  lost  an  arm  in  the  Crimea 
He  used  to  do  business  with  us  when  I  was  with 
Hargous  m  the  rue  de  Provence.  Having  im- 
poverished himself  in  a  plot  in  favor  of  the  Comte 
de  Chambord,  somewhere  about  1872,  he  came 
utterly  to  grief  in  raising  funds  for  the  Boulanger 
craze,  m  the  train  of  the  Duchesse  d'Uzes.  He 
died  shortly  afterward,  one  of  the  last  to  break  bit 
heart  over  the  hopeless  Bourbon  cause." 

"That,  I  understand  you  to  say,  was  the  grand- 
father of  the  young  woman  who  is  after  money. 
She  s  a  Frenchwoman,  then  ?" 

"She's  half  French.  That  was  her  grandfather. 
1  he  father  was  of  much  the  same  type,  but  a  lighter 
we^ht.  He  married  an  Irish  beauty,  a  Miss 
O  Hara,  as  poor  as  himself  He  died  young,  I  be- 
heve.  and  I'd  lost  sight  of  the  lot,  till  this  Made- 
moiselle Diane  de  la  Ferronaise  floated  into  view, 
some  five  years  ago,  in  the  train  of  the  Nohant 
family.  Her  marriage  to  George  Eveleth,  which 
took  place  almost  at  once,  was  looked  upon  as  an 
excellent  thing  all  round.  It  rid  the  Nohants  of  a 
poor  relation,  and  helped  to  establish  the  Eveleth* 
in  the  heart  of  the  old  aristocracy.  Since  then 
Bwne  has  been  going  the  pace." 
37 


THE     I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 
"What  pace?" 

"The  pace  the  Eveleth  money  couldn't  keep  up 
with;  the  pace  that  made  her  the  most -talked  of 
woman  in  a  society  where  women  are  talked  of  more 
than  enough;  the  pace  that  led  George  Eveleth  to 
put  a  bullet  through  his  head  under  pretence  of 
fighting  a  duel." 

"Dear  mel  Dear  mel  A  most  unusual  young 
woman  1  Do  you  tell  me  that  her  husband  actually 
put  sn  end  to  himself?" 

"  So  I  understand.  The  affair  was  a  curious  one, 
but  Bienville  swears  he  fired  into  the  air.  and  I 
believe  him.  Besides,  George  Eveleth  was  found 
shot  through  the  temple,  and  no  one  but  himself 
could  have  inflicted  a  wound  like  that.  To  make 
It  conclusive,  Melcourt  and  Vemois,  who  were  sec- 
«»ids,  testify  to  having  seen  the  act,  without  having 
the  ome  to  prevent  it.  You  can  see  that  it  is  a  relief 
to  me  to  be  able  to  take  this  view  of  the  case-on 
poor  Marion's  account." 

"Marion— your  daughterl    Was  she  mixed  ub 
m  the  affair  ?"  "^ 

"Mixed  up  is  a  little  to  much  to  say.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  in  confidence  that  there' was  some- 
thing between  her  and  Bienville.  I  don't  know 
where  it  mightn't  have  ended;  but  of  course  when 
all  this  happened,  and  we  got  wind  of  Bienville's 
enunglement  with  Mrs.  Eveleth,  we  had  to  put  a 
stop  to  the  thing,  and  pack  her  off  to  America. 
38 


THE      INN  E  R      S  H  R  I  N 


She'll  stay  there  with  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Bayford,  till  it 
blows  over," 

"And  your  friend  Bienville  ?    Hasn't  he  brought 
himself  within  the  clutches  of  the  law !'' 

"George  Eveleth  was  officially  declared  a  suicide. 
He  had  every  reason  to  be  one— though  I  don't 
want  to  say  anything  against  Mrs.  Eveleth.  When 
Bienville  refused  to  put  an  end  to  him,  he  evidently 
decided  to  do  it  himself.  His  family  know  nothing 
about  that,  so  please  don't  let  it  slip  out  if  you  see 
Diane.  With  her  notions,  the  husband  fallen  in 
her  cause  has  perished  on  the  field  of  honor;  and 
if  that's  any  comfort  to  her,  let  her  keep  it.  As  for 
Bienville,  he's  joined  young  Persigny,  the  explorer, 
in  South  America.  By  the  time  he  returns  the 
affair  will  have  been  forgotten.  He's  a  nice  young 
fellow,  and  it's  a  thousand  pities  he  should  have 
fallen  into  the  net  of  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Eveleth. 
I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  her,  you  under- 
stand—" 

"Oh,  quitet" 

"But—" 

Mr.  Grimston  pronounced  the  word  with  a  hard- 
drawn  breath,  and  presented  the  appearance  of  a 
man  who  restrains  himself.  He  was  still  endeavor- 
ing to  maintain  this  attitude  of  repression  when  a 
discreet  ttp  on  the  door  called  from  Mr.  van  Tromp 
a  gruff  "Come  in."  A  young  man  entered  wi'i> 
a  card. 

39 


I 


i 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"She's  here,"  tlie  banker  grunted,  readme  the 
ame. 

Mr.  Grimston  shot  up  again. 
"Better  let  me  see  her,"  he  insisted,  )n  a  wamine 
tone.  * 

"No,  no.     i"!  have  a  look  at  her  myself.    Bring 

the  lady  .n,"  he  added,  to  the  youn?  man  in  waiting 

Then  I'll  skip,"  said  Mr.  Grimston.  suiting  the 

actjon  to  the  word  by  disappearing  in  one  direction 

as  Uiane  entered  from  another. 

Mr.  van  Tromp  rose  heavily,  and  surveyed  her 
as  she  crossed  the  floor  toward  him.  He  had  been 
expectmg  some  such  seductive  French  beauty  as  he 
had  occasionally  seen  on  the  stage  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  he  went  to  a  plav;  so  that  the  trim- 
ness  of  this  little  figure  in  widow's  dress,  with  white 
bands  and  cufFs.  after  the  English  fashion,  some- 
what disconcerted  him.  Unaccustomed  to  the 
ways  of  banks,  Diane  half  offered  her  hand,  but, 
as  he  was  on  his  guard  against  taking  it.  she  stood 
still  before  him. 

"Mrs  Eveleth,  I  believe,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
surveyed  her  well.  '«Have  the  goodness  to  sit 
down,  and  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

Diane  took  the  seat  he  indicated,  which  left 
a  discreet  space  between  them.  The  heavy  black 
satchel  she  carried  she  placed  on  the  floor  be- 
^de  her.  When  she  raised  her  veil,  Mr.  van 
Iromp  observed  to  himself  that  the  pale  face, 
40 


THE     I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

touching  in  expression,  and  the  brown  eyes,  in 
which  there  seemed  to  lurk  a  gentle  reproach 
against  the  world  for  having  treated  her  so  badly, 
were  exactly  what  he  would  have  expected  in  a 
woman  coming  to  borrow  money. 

"I've  come  to  you,  Mr.  van  Tromp,"  Diane  b». 
gan,  timidly,  ''because  I  thought  that  perhaps— 
you  might  know— who  I  am." 

"I  don't  know  anything  at  all  about  you,"  was 
the  not  encouraging  response. 

"Of  course  there's  no  reason  why  you  should—" 
Diane  hastened  to  say,  apologetically. 

"None  whatever,"  he  assured  her. 

"Only  that  a  good  many  people  do  know  us—" 

"I  dare  say.  I  haven't  the  honor  to  be  among 
the  number." 

"And  I  thought  that  possibly— just  possibly— 
you  might  be  predisposed  in  my  favor." 

"A  banker  is  never  predisposed  in  favor  of  any 
one— not  even  his  ovm  flesh  and  blood." 

"I  didn't  know  thai,"  Diane  persisted,  bravely, 
"otherwise  I  might  just  as  well  have  gone  to  any- 
body else." 

"Just  as  well." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  go  now?" 

The  question  took  him  by  surprise,  and  before 
replymg  he  looked  at  her  again  with  queer,  bulgy 
eyes  peering  throug!:  big  circular  glasses,  in  a  way 
that  made  Diane  think  of  an  ogre  in  a  faiiy  tale; 
♦I 


t 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

"You're  not  here  for  what  I  like,"  he  said  at 
last,  "but  for  what  you  want  yourself." 

"That's  true,"  Diane  admitted,  ruefully,  "but 
I  might  go  away.     I  will  go  away,  if  you  say 
.    so." 

"You'll  please  yourself.  I  didn't  send  for  you, 
and  I'll  not  tell  you  to  go.     How  old  are  you  ?" 

It  was  Diane's  turn  to  be  surprised,  but  she 
brought  out  her  age  promptly. 

"Twenty-four." 

"You  look  older." 

"That's  because  I've  had  so  much  trouble*  per- 
haps. It's  because  we're  in  trouble  that  I've  come 
to  you,  Mr.  van  Tromp." 

"I  dare  say.  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  come  to 
ask  me  to  dinner.  There  are  not  many  days  go 
by  without  some  one  expecting  me  to  pull  him  out 
of  the  scrape  he  would  never  have  got  into  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  his  own  fault" 

"I'm  afraid  that's  veiy  like  my  case." 

"It's  like  a  good  many  cases.  You're  no  ex- 
ception to  the  rule." 

"And  what  do  you  do  at  such  times,  if  I  may 
ask  ?" 

"You  may  ask,  but  I'll  not  tell  you.  You're 
here  on  your  own  business,  I  presume,  and  not  on 
mine." 

"I  thought  that  perhaps  you'd  be  good  enough 
to  make  mine  yours.    Though  we've  never  met,  I 

42 


THE     INNER      SHRINK 

•lave  seen  you  at  various  times,  and  it  always  seemed 
to  me  that  you  looked  kind;  and  so — " 

"Stop  right  there,  ma'am  I"  he  cried,  putting  up 
a  warning  hand,  " '  Most  important  business,'  was 
what  you  said  in  your  note,  otherwise  I  shouldn't 
have  consented  to  see  you.  If  you  have  any  busi- 
ness, state  it,  and  I'll  say  yes  or  no,  as  it  strikes  me. 
But  I'll  tell  you  beforehand  that  there  isn't  a  chance 
in  a  thousand  but  what  it  '11  be  no." 

"  I  did  come  because  I  thought  you  looked  kind," 
Diane  declared,  indignantly,  "  and  if  you  think  it 
was  for  any  other  reason  whatever,  you're  absolute- 
ly mistaken." 

"Then  we'll  let  it  be.  I  can't  help  my  looks,  nor 
what  you  think  about  them.  The  point  is  that 
you're  here  for  something;  so  let's  know  what  it  is." 

"You  make  it  very  hard  for  me,"  Diane  said, 
almost  tearfully,  "but  I'l!  try.  I  must  tell  you, 
first  of  all,  that  we've  lost  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"That's  no  new  situation." 

"It  is  to  me;  and  it's  even  more  so  to  my  poor 
mother-in-law.  I  should  think  you  must  have 
heard  of  her  at  least.  She  is  Mrs.  Arthur  Eve- 
feth.  Her  maiden  name  was  Naomi  de  Ruyter,  of 
New  York." 

"Very  likely." 

"Her  husband  was  related,  on  his  mother's  side, 
to  the  Van  Tromps — the  same  family  as  your 
own." 


i '  •! 


THE     INNER      S  H  P  r  at  ^ 

'"ITiat's  more  likely  still.  There  are  as  maBy 
Van  Tromps  .n  New  York  as  there  are  shrin,"s^J 
Ae  Breton  coast,  and  they're  all  related  to  me.  be- 
cause  I  m  supposed  to  have  a  little  money." 

^tl'  .  ''"""'*  ^  ^=nt  your  help." 
^^  That's  a  very  good  reason." 
"But  since  you  take  so  little  interest  in  us  I  will 

»^ri::z''" '"''•"  *"'-'■"-- 

"I'll  take  that  for  granted." 

"The  blow  has  fallen  more  heavily  on  my  mother 
m-law  than  on  me.  She  has  lost  evetyAing  she 
had  m  the  world;  wh  le  I  have  still  my  own  m^ey 

"Well?" 

her.    bhe  s  the  sort  of  woman  who  ought  to  have 

"I'd  give  her  some." 

«f 2- '"  °.•'"^f f*''  <l"''^"y.  with  a  renewed  touch 
of  md.g„at.on.  "but  that  you'd  help  me  to  do  "t" 

under  h.s  shaggy    overhanging  brows,  whife  tS 
protrudmg  lower  l.p  went  a  shade  further  out. 
Help  you  to  do  it  ?    How  ?" 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"By  letting  her  have  mine." 

Again  he  looked  at  her,  almost  suspiciously. 

"You've  got  plenty  to  give  avcay,  I  suppose?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I've  pitifully  little;  but  such 
as  It  IS,  I  want  her  to  have  it  all.  She  could  live 
on  it— with  economy;  or  at  least  she  says  I  could  " 

"And  can't  you  V 

"I  don't  want  to.  As  there  isn't  enough  for  two, 
I  wish  to  settle  it  on  her.  Isn't  that  the  word  ?— 
settle  ?" 

"It  '11  do  as  well  as  another.  And  what  do  you 
propose  to  do  yourself?" 

"Work." 

Diane  forced  the  word  in  a  little  gasp  of  humiL'a. 
tion,  but  she  got  it  out. 

"And  what  '11  you  work  at  ?" 

"I  don't  know  yet,  exactly.  I  shall  have  to 
see.  My  mother-in-law  is  going  to  America;  and 
when  she  does  I'll  join  her." 

"Humph!  My  good  woman,  you  wouldn't  do 
more  than  just  keep  ahead  of  starvation." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  expect  to  do  more.  If  I  suc- 
ceeded in  that— I  should  live."  ( 

"  How  much  money  have  you  got  ?" 

"It's  all  here,"  she  answered,  picking  up  the 
fclack  satchel  and  opening  it.  "These  are  my 
securities,  and  I'm  told  they're  very  good." 

And  do  you  take  them  round  with  you  eveiy 
dme  you  go  shopping  ?" 

♦  45 


THE      INNER      .^  ^^__^_rjV__r 

"No."  Diane  smiled,  somewhat  wanly.  "They've 
been  m  the  hands  of  the  Messrs.  Hargous  fori 
good  many  years  past.  They  are  entirely  at  my 
own  d.sposal-not  in  trust,  they  said;  so  that  I 
had  a  nght  to  take  them  away.  I  thought  I  would 
just  bnng  them  to  you." 

"Miat  for.?" 

"To  keep  them  for  my  mother-in-law  and  pa, 
iter  the  mterest,  or  whatever  it  is  " 

"Why  didn't  you  leave  them  with  Hargous?" 
I  was  afraid,  from  some  things  he  said,  he 
would  object  to  wj-.t  I  wanted  to  do  " 

to  it  toV?''  "''■'  ^°"  ''"■"^  ^  "°"''''»''  °^J^ 

"Two  or  three  reasons.    First,  Monsieur  Har. 

gous  .s  not  an  American,  and  you  are;    and  I'd 

anTdi;;1"'"  ^""'""^  '''^^y''^'^  'o  I>elp  Jne 

.•nto'yo^l'L'a T"  "'^  •^°""  '-''  ""^  ^''-  «-- 

voI'^t'^'  ?^"'  '"•"I"  r^^  ^^"^  S'''"?^^*  I've  had  of 
you-I  «.//  say  it!-I  thought  you  looked  kind." 

Well,  now  Aat  you've  had  a  better  look,  you 

«ee  I  dont     How  much  money  have  you  got? 

You  haven't  told  me  that  yet."  /  "  8°" 

"Here's  the  memorandum.    They  said  they  were 

mostly  bonds,  and  very  good  ones  " 

fc^S'bi.r-'''  K^PuP-'  '"  ^''  '''"'«'  *«  tanker 
tewed  back  m  the  chair,  and  took  a  longer  time 


THE     I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

^  was  necessary  to  scan  the  poor  little  list.  In 
reality  he  was  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  unex- 
pected features  of  the  case,  venturing  a  peep  at 
Diane  as  she  sat  meekly  awaiting  the  end  of  his 
perusal. 

^^  "Hasn't  it  occurred  to  you,"  he  asked,  at  last, 
that  you  could  leave  your  affairs  in   Hargous' 
hands,  and  still  turn  over  to  your  mother-in-law 
A-hatever  sums  he  paid  you?" 

"Yes;   but  she  wouldn't  take  the  money  unless 
she  thought  it  was  her  very  own." 
"But  it  isn't  her  very  own.     It's  yours." 
"I  want  to  make  it  hers.     I  want  to  transfer  it 
to  her  absolutdy-so  that  no  one  else,  not  even  I 
shall  have  a  claim  upon  it.     There  must  be  way.' 
of  doing  that." 

"There  are  ways  of  doinf  that,  but  as  far  as 
she  s  concetned  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  If  she 
won't  touch  the  income,  she  will  refuse  to  accept 
the  principal." 

"I've  thought  of  that,  too;  and  it's  among  the 
reasons  why  I've  come  to  you.  I  hoped  you'd 
help  me —  ' 

"To  tell  a  lie  about  it." 
"I  should  think  it  might  be  done  without  that 
My  mother-in-law  is  a  very  simple  woman  in  bmi- 
ness  affairs.  She  has  been  used  all  her  life  to 
having  money  paid  into  her  account,  when  she  had 
only  the  vaguest  idea  as  to  where  it  came  from. 
47 


i 


LRJl  inner    shrine 

ff  you  should  write  to  her  now  and  say  that  some 
«nall  funds  m  her  name  were  in  your  hands,  and 
4at  you  would  pay  her  the  income  at  stated  i„- 
t^vals,  nothing  would  seem  more  natural  to  her 
She  would  probably  attribute  it  to  some  act  of 
foresight  on  her  son's  part,  and  never  think  I  had 
anything  to  do  with  it  at  all." 

For  three  or  four  minutes  he  sat  in  meditation, 
stiU  glancing  at  her  furtively  under  his  shaggy 
brows,  while  she  waited  for  his  decision. 

I  don't  approve  of  it  at  all,"  he  said,  at  last. 
Uon  t  say  that,"  she  pleaded.     "I've  honed 
•o  much  that  you'd—"  ^^ 

fcs^e.     I'll  just  venfy  these  bonds  and  certificate^ 

He  took  them,  one  by  one,  from  the  bag.  and, 
havmg  compared  them  with  the  list,  replaced  them! 
And,  he  connnued,  "you  can  come  and  se« 
me  again  at  this  time  to-morrow  " 

"Oh,  thank  you!" 

n  JIT  """  ^^r^  .T  r'"""  ^'^<=  *'°"«  something- 
all  R  '••  Y"^  ^'^'^^  ^  '^''"'^  ^'^  a„ything%^ 
all.  But  .n  the  mean  while  you  may  leave  you, 
satchel  here,  and  not  run  the  risk  of  being  robbed 
.n  the  street  If  I  refuse  you  to-morroJ-as  is 
probable  I  shall-I'Il  send  a  man  with  >ou  to  s« 
you  and  your  money  safely  back  to  Hargous." 
He  touched  a  bell,  and  a  young  man  entered. 
4« 


THE     I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

On  directions  from  the  banker  the  clerk  left  the 
room,  taking  the  bag  with  him;  while  Diane,  feel- 
mg  that  her  errand  had  been  largely  accomplished, 
rose  to  leave. 

"You  can't  go  without  the  receipt  for  your 
securities.  How  do  you  know  I'm  not  stealing 
them  from  you  ?  What  right  would  you  have  to 
claim  them  when  you  came  again?  Sit  down 
now  and  tell  me  something  more  about  your- 
self." ' 

Half  smiling,  half  tearfully,  Diane  complied. 
Before  the  clerk  returned  she  had  given  a  brief  out- 
line of  her  life,  agreeing  in  all  but  the  tone  of  tell- 
ing with  much  of  what  Mr.  Grimston  had  stated 
half  an  hour  earlier. 

"It  has  been  all  my  fault,"  she  declared,  as  the 
young  man  re-entered.  "There's  been  nobody  to 
blame  but  me." 

"I  see  that  well  enough,"  the  old  man  agreed, 
and  once  more  she  prepared  to  depart. 

"Look  at  your  receipt.  Compare  it  with  the 
list  there  on  the  desk."  Diane  obeyed,  though  her 
eyes  swam  so  that  she  could  not  tell  one  word  from 
another.  "Is  it  all  right?  Then  so  much  the 
better.  You'll  find  me  at  the  same  time  to-morrow 
— if  you're  not  late." 

"Since  you  won't  let  me  thank  you,  I  must  go 
without  doing  so,"  she  began,  tremulously,  "but  I 
-• 1  you — " 

49 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  T  M  j, 

"You  needn't  assure  me  of  anything,  but  just 
come  agam  to-morrow." 

bottd  '""''''^  '''""^''  ^^  """  °^"  ^"  *^'^'  ""'' 

"I  sNall  not  be-late."  was  aU  she  ventured  to 
say,  and  turned  to  leave  him. 

She  had  reached  the  door,  and  half  opened  it, 
When  she  heard  his  voice  behind  her. 

"Stay!    Just  a  minute!    I'd  like  to'shake  hands 
With  you,  young  wopian." 

_  Diane  turned  and  allowed  him  to  take  her  hand 
in  a  gnp  that  hurt  her.  She  was  so  astounded  by 
the  suddenness  of  tlie  act,  as  well  as  by  the  rapidity 
With  which  he  closed  the  door  behind  her,  that  her 
tears  did  not  actually  fall  until  she  found  herself 
«  the  public  depanment  of  the  bank,  outside 


IV 

ON  board  tht  Pieardie,  steaming  to  New  Yort, 
Mrs.  Eveleth  and  Diane  were  beginning  to 
realize  the  gravity  of  the  step  they  had  taken.    As 
long  as  they  remained  in  Paris,  batthng  with  the 
sordid  details  of  financial  downfall,  America  had 
seemed  the  land  of  hope  and  reconstruction,  where 
the  ruined  would  find  to  their  hands  the  means  with 
which  to  begin  again.     The  illusion  had  sustained 
them  all  through  the  first  months  of  living  on  little 
and  stood  by  them  till  the  very  hour  of  departure 
It  faded  just  when  they  had  most  need  of  it— when 
the  last  cliffs  of  France  went  suddenly  out  of  sight 
m  a  thick  fog-bank  of  nothingness;   and  the  cold 
empty   void,    through    which    the    steamer   crept 
cautiously,  roaring  from  minute  to  minute  like  a 
leviathan  in  pain,  seemed  all   that  the  universe 
henceforth  had  to  offer  them.     They  would  have 
been  astonished  to  know  that,  beyond  the  fog.  Fate 
was  getting  the  New  World  ready  for  their  rt- 
ception,  by  creating  among  the  rich  those  misfort- 
unes out  of  which  not  infrequently  proceed  the 
blessings  of  the  poor. 

5« 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

When  that  excellent  aged  lady.  Miss  Regina  van 
Tromp,  sister  to  the  well-known  Paris  banker,  was 
felled  by  a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  the  personal  calamity 
might,  by  a  mind  taking  all  things  into  account, 
have  been  considered  balanced  by  the  circumstance 
that  It  was  affording  employment  to  some  refined 
woman  of  reduced  means,  capable  of  taking  care  of 
the  invalid.     It  had  the  funher  advantage  that, 
coming  suddenly  as  it  did,  it  absorbed  the  attention 
of  Miss  Lucilla  van  Tromp,  the  sick  lady's  com- 
panion and  niece,  who  became  unable  henceforth 
to  give  to  the  household  of  her  cousin,  Derek  Pniyn, 
that  general  supervision  which  a  kindly  old  maid' 
can  exercise  in  the  home  of  a  young  and  prosperous 
widower.     Were  Destiny  on  the  lookout  for  stiH 
another  opening,  she  could  have  found  it  in  the 
fact  that  Miss  Dorothea  Pruyn,  whose  father's  di». 
cipline  came  by  fits  and  starts,  while  his  indulgence 
was  continuous,  had  reached  a  point  in  motherless 
maidenhood    where,    according   to    Miss    Lucilla, 
"something  ought  to  be  done."    There  was  thus' 
unrest,  and  a  straining  after  new  conditions,  in  that 
very  family  toward  which  Mrs.  Eveleth's  imagina- 
tion turn -d  from  this  dreary,  leaden  sea  as  to  a 
possible  .._ven. 

Since  the  wonderful  morning  when  the  banker 

had  brought  her  the  news  of  her  little  inheritance 

her  thoughts  had  dwelt  much  on  Van  Tromps  and 

Pruyns,  as  representatives  of  that  old  New  York 

5* 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

clan  with  which  she  deigned  to  claim  alhance;  and 
she  found  no  small  comfort  in  going  over,  again 
and  again,  the  details  of  the  interview  which  had 
brtught  her  once  more  into  contact  with  her  kin 
James  van  Tromp,  she  informed  Diane,  as  they 
lay  covered  with  rugs  in  their  steamer-chairs,  had 
been  gruff  in  manner,  but  kind  in  heart,  like  all 
the  Van  Tromps  she  had  ever  heard  of.     He  had 
not  scrupled  to  dwell  upon  her  past  extravagance, 
but  he  had  tempered  his  remarks  by  commending 
her  resolution  to  return  to  her  old  home  and  friends 
In  the  matter  of  friends,  he  assured  her,  she  would 
find  herself  with  very  few.     She  would  be  forgotten 
by  some  and  ignored  by  others;   while  those  who 
still  took  an  interest  in  her  would  resent  the  fact 
diat  m  the  days  of  her  prosperity  she  had  neglected 
them.    In  any  case,  she  must  have  the  meekness  of 
the  suppliant.    As  her  means  at  most  would  be 
small,  she  n.ast  be  grateful  if  any  of  her  relatives 
would  take  her  without  wages,  as  a  sort  of  superior 
lady's  maid,  and  save  her  the  expense  of  board  and 
lodgmg. 

^  "And  so  you  see,  dear,"  she  finished,  humbly, 
"it's  going  to  be  all  right.  George  thought  of  me; 
and  far  more  than  any  money,  I  value  that.  James 
van  Tromp  said  that  this  sum  had  been  placed  in 
his  hands  some  time  ago  to  be  specially  used  for 
me,  and  I  couldn't  help  understanding  what  that 
meant  When  my  boy  saw  the  disaster  coming  he 
53 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  rjJ_B' 

did  his  best  to  protect  me;  and  it  will  be  my  part 
now  to  show  that  he  did  enough." 

If  Diane  listened  to  these  familiar  remarks,  it 
was  only  to  take  a  dull  satisfaction  in  the  working 
of  her  scheme;  but  Mrs.  Eveleth's  next  words 
startled  her  into  sudden  attention. 

"Haven't  I  he^rd  you  say  that  you  knew  James 
ran  1  romp  s  nephew,  Derek  Pruyn  ?" 

"I  did  know  him,"  Diane  answered,  with  a  trace 
ot  hesitation. 

"You  knew  him  well  ?" 
"Not  exactly;   it  was  different  from— well  " 
Different?    How?    Did  you  meet  him  often  ?" 
Never  often;   but  when  we  did  meet—" 
The  possibilities  implied  in   Diane's  pause  in- 
duced Mrs.  Eveleth  to  turn  in  her  chair  and  look 
at  her. 

"You've  never  told  me  about  that." 

"There  wasn't  much  to  tell.  Don't  you  know 
what  It  IS  to  have  met,  just  a  few  times  in  your  life, 
some  one  who  leaves  behind  a  memoiy  out  of  pro- 
portion  to  the  degree  of  the  acquaintance  ?  It  was 
something  like  that  with  this  Mr.  Pruyn." 

"  Where  was  it  ?     In  Paris  ?" 

"I  met  him  first  in  Ireland.  He  was  staying 
with  some  friends  ok  ours  the  last  year  mamma  and 
I  hved  at  kilrowan.  What  I  remember  about  him 
was  that  he  seemed  so  young  to  be  a  widower- 
•caFceiy  more  than  a  boy." 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 
"Is  that  all?" 

"It's  veiy  nearly  all;  but  there  is  something 
more.  He  said  one  day  when  we  were  talking  in- 
omately-we  always  seemed  to  talk  intimately 
when  we  were  together-that  if  ever  I  was  in 
trouble,  I  was  to  remember  him." 

"How  extraordinary!" 

"Yes,  it  was.  I  reminded  him  of  it  when  we  met 
■gain.  That  was  the  year  I  was  going  out  with 
Mane  de  Nohant,  just  before  George  and  I  were 
married." 

"And  what  did  he  say  then  ?" 

"That  he  repeated  the  request." 
^  "Extraordinary!"  Mrs.  Eveleth commented  again. 
Are  you  going  to  do  anything  about  it  f" 

"I've  thought  of  it,"  Diane  admitted,  "but  I 
don't  believe  I  can." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  a  pity  to  neglect  so  goc.d  an 
opponunity  ?" 

"It  might  rather  be  a  pity  to  avail  one's  self  of  it. 
There  are  things  in  life  too  pleasant  to  put  to  th« 
test."  "^ 

"He  might  like  you  to  do  it.  After  all,  he's  a 
connection." 

Not  caring  to  continue  the  subject,  Diane  mur- 
mured something  about  feeling  cold,  and  rose  for 
a  httle  exercise.  Having  advanced  as  far  forward 
as  she  could  go,  she  turned  her  back  upon  her  feU 
wtr-passengers,  stretched  in  mute  misery  in  th«it 
55 


THE      INNER      SHRINK 

chairs  or  huddled  in  cheerful  groups  behind  shelter- 
•ng  projections,  and  stood  watching  the  dip  and 
nse  of  the  steamer's  bow  as  it  drove  onward  into 
the  m.st  Whither  was  she  going,  and  to  what? 
With  a  desperate  sense  of  her  ignorance  and  im- 
potence, she  strained  her  eyes  into  the  white,  dimly 
translucent  bank,  from  which  stray  drops  repeated- 
ly lashed  her  face,  as  though  its  vaporous  wall  alone 
Mood  between  her  and  the  knowledge  of  her  future. 

If  she  could  have  seen  beyond  the  fog  and  carried 
her  vision  over  the  intervening  leagues  of  ocean, 
so  as  to  look  mto  a  large,  old  ^ashioned  New  York 
house  in  Gramercy  Park,  she  would  have  found 
Derek  Pniyn  and  Lucilla  van  Tromp  discussing 
one  of  the  cardinal  points  on  which  that  future  was 
to  turn. 

That  it  was  not  an  amusing  conversation  would 
have  been  clear  from  the  agitation  of  Derek's  man- 
ner  as  he  strode  up  and  down  the  room,  as  well  as 
from  the  ngidigr  with  which  his  cousin,  usually  a 
hmp  person  heJd  herself  erect,  in  the  attitude  of 
1  woman  who  has  no  intention  of  retiring  from  the 
rftand  she  has  taken. 

"You  force  me  to  speak  more  plainly  than  I  like, 
Uerek.  she  was  saying,  "because  you  make  your- 
self  so  obtuse.  You  seem  to  forget  that  years  have 
a  way  of  passmg,  and  that  Dorothea  is  no  loneet 
a  very  httle  girl."  * 

56 


THE     I  N  N  E 


R      SHE  I N  E 


1  She's  barely  seventeen— no  more  than  a  child." 
Uut  a  motherless  child,  and  one  who  has  been 
aUowed  a  great  deal  of  liberty." 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  a  girl  shouldn't  be  a 
free  creature?" 

"..^^^,''^1^''^°'^  ""^y  =*  ^°y  shouldn't  be  one." 

mischief!"'         '*"'■    ^  ^^  '"""''^  ^^  ^"'"8  '"**' 

"Even  a  girl  isn't  proof  against  that  possibility. 

It  mayn  t  be  a  boy's  kind  of  mischief,  but  it's  a 

kind  of  her  own." 

Unwilling  to  credit  this  statement,  and  yet  un- 
able to  contradict  it.  Pruyn  continued  his  march 
tor  a  mmute  or  two  in  silence,  while  Miss  LuciUa 
waited  nenrously  for  him  to  speak  again.     It  was 
one  of  the  few  points  m  the  round  of  daily  existence 
on  which  she  was  prepared  to  give  him  battle.     It 
was  part  of  the  ridiculous  irony  of  life  that  Derek 
with  the  domestic  incompetency  natural  to  a  banker 
and  a  dub-man,  should  have  a  daughter  to  train, 
while  she  whose  instinct  was  so  passiontt -ly  ma- 
ternal must  be  doomed  to  spinsterhood.     She  had 
never  made  any  secret  of  the  fact  that  to  watch 
Derek  bnngmg  up  Dorothea  made  her  as  fidgety 
as  if  she  had  seen  him  trimming  hats,  though  she 
recognized  the  futility  of  trying  to  snatch  the  task 
trom  his  hands  in  order  to  do  it  properly.     The  ut- 
moet  she  had  been  able  to  accomplish  was  to  be 
allowed  to  plod  daily  from  Gramercy  Park  to  Fifth 
57 


THE     INNER      S  H  R  T  M  n 

Avenue,  in  the  hope  of  keeping  bad  from  becom- 
mg  worse;  and  even  this  insufficient  oversight  must 
be  discontmued  now,  since  Aunt  Regina  would 
monopohze  her  care.  If  she  took  the  matter  to 
heart  ,t  was  no  more,  she  thought,  than  she  had 
a  right  to  do  seeing  that  Derek  was  almost  hke  a 
younger  brother,  and.  with  the  exception  of  Uncle 
James  m  Pans,  and  Aunt  Regina  in  New  York 
her  nearest  relative  in  the  world.  ' 

r.t.f'I  ^'T''  "P  ^'  ''''"  '■'°'"  "-"^  'o  rime  she 
reflected,  wuh  some  pride,  that  no  one  could  have 
taken  h.m  for  anything  but  what  he  was-a  rising 
young  New  York  banker  of  some  hereditary  S 
As  m  cenam  English  portraits  there  is  an  inborn 
aptitude   for  statesmanship,   so  in   Derek   Pruyn 

VanV  u"  t'  ''""'"  '"^-P^^ble  from  the 
Van  Iromp  kmship.  of  one  accustomed  to  possess 
money,  to  make  money,  to  spend  money,  and  to 
support  moneyed  responsibilities.     The  face,  sliaht- 

,  ."Tl  ^  "f  "'*•  '^'^^"^y  8^^^«  ^y  t>abit.  and 
unned  by  outdoor  exercise,  was  that  of  a  man  who 
^elds  h.s  special  kind  of  power  with  a  due  sense 
of  Its  importance,  and  yet  wields  it  easily.  Nature 
having  endowed  the  Van  Tromps  with  evety  ex- 
ceUence  but  that  of  good  looks,  it  was  Miss  Lucilla's 
tendency  to  depreciate  beauty;  but  she  was  too 
much  a  woman  not  to  be  sensible  of  the  charms  of 
..V  f„..  rwo  with  proportionate  width  of  shoulder, 
ly  of  standmg  straight  and  looking  straight; 
58 


and 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

incompatible  with  anything  but  "acting  straight," 
that  was  full  of  a  fine  dominance.  That  he  should 
be  carefully  dressed  was  but  a  detail  in  the  exacti- 
tude which  was  the  main  element  in  his  character; 
while  his  daily  custom  of  wearing  in  his  button- 
hole a  dark-red  carnation,  a  token  of  some  never- 
explained  memory  of  his  dead  wife,  indicated  a 
capacity  for  sober  romance  which  she  did  not  find 
displeasing. 

"Then  what  would  you  do  about  it?"  he  asked, 
at  last,  pausing  abruptly  in  his  walk  and  con- 
fronting her. 

"There  isn't  much  choice,  Derek.  Human 
society  is  so  constituted  as  to  leave  us  very  little 
opportunity  for  striking  into  original  paths.  Aunt 
Regina  has  told  you  many  a  time  what  was  possible, 
and  you  didn't  like  it;  but  I'll  repeat  it  if  you  wish. 
You  could  send  her  to  a  good  boarding-school—" 
Neverl" 

"Or  you  could  have  a  lady  to  chaperon  her 
properly." 

"Rubbish!" 

"Well,  there  you  are,  Derek.  You  refuse  the 
only  means  that  could  help  you  in  your  situation; 
and  so  you  leave  Dorothea  a  prey  to  a  woman  like 
Mrs.  Wappinger.  You'll  excuse  me  for  mention- 
mg  It;   but—" 

"^'i/r^'^'^"^^  ''°"  ^°^  mentioning  anything;    but 
eren  Mrs.  Wappinger  ought  to  have  justice.    You 
59 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  N  E 

know  as  well  as  I  do  that  Uncle  James  wanted  to 
marry  her,  and  that  it  was  only  her  own  common - 
sense  that  saved  us  from  having  her  as  an  aunt. 
You  may  not  admire  her  type,  but  you  can't  deny 
that  It's  one  which  has  a  legitimate  place  in  Amen- 
can  civilization.  Ours  isn't  a  society  that  can 
afford  to  exclude  the  self-made  man,  or  his  widow." 
"That  may  be  quite  true,  Derek;  only  in  that 
case  you  have  also  to  reckon  with— his  son." 

Derek  bounded  away  once  more,  making  mani- 
fest efforts  to  control  himself  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"You  know  this  subject  is  most  distasteful  to 
me,  Lucilla,"  he  said,  severely. 

"I  know  it  is;  and  it's  equally  so  to  me.  But  I 
see  what's  going  on,  and  you  don't— there's  the  dif- 
ference. What  should  a  young  man  like  you  know 
about  bringing  up  a  school-girl  ?  To  see  you  in- 
trusted with  her  at  all  makes  me  very  nearly  doubt 
the  wisdom  of  the  ends  of  Providence.  She's  a 
good  little  girl  by  nature,  but  your  indulgence  would 
spoil  an  angel." 

"I  don't  indulge  her.  I've  forbidden  her  to  do 
lots  of  things." 

"Exactly;  you  come  down  on  the  poor  thing 
when  she's  not  doing  any  harm,  and  you  put  no 
restrictions  on  the  things  in  which  she's  wilful.  If 
there's  a  girl  on  earth  who  is  beinj  brought  ii^ 
backward,  w's  Dorotfaa  Prsya." 
60 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"She's  my  child.  I  presume  I've  got  a  right  to 
do  what  I  like  with  her." 

"You'll  find  that  you've  done  what  you  don't 
like  with  her,  when  you've  allowed  her  to  get  into 
a  ridiculous,  unmaidenly  flirtation  with  the  young 
man  Wappinger." 

"I  shouldn't  let  that  distress  me  if  I  were  you. 
As  far  as  Dorothea  is  concerned,  your  young  man 
Wappinger  coesn't  exist." 

"That's  as  it  may  be,"  Miss  Lucilla  sniffed,  now 
on  the  brink  of  tears. 

^  "That's  as  it  is,"  he  insisted,  picking  up  his  hat. 
"It's  to  be  regretted,"  he  added,  with  dignity,  as 
he  took  his  leave,  "that  on  this  subject  you  and  I 
cannot  see  alike;  but  I  think  you  may  inist  me 
not  to  endanger  the  happiness  of  my  child." 

Even  if  Diane  could  have  transcended  space  to 
assist  at  this  brief  interview,  she  would  probably 
have  missed  its  bearing  on  herself;  but  had  she 
transported  her  spirit  at  the  same  instant  to  still 
another  scene,  the  effect  would  have  been  more 
enlightening.  While  she  srill  stood  watching  the 
rise  and  dip  of  the  steamer's  bow,  Mrs.  Wappinger, 
m  a  larger  and  more  elaborate  mansion  than  the 
old-fashioned  house  in  Gramercy  Park,  was  read- 
ing to  her  son  such  poruons  of  a  letter  from  James 
van  Tromp  as  she  considered  it  discreet  for  him 
to  hear.  A  stout,  florid  lady,  in  jovial  middle  age, 
6i 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

ker  appearance  as  an  agent  in  her  affairs  wouM 
•ertainly  ha-e  surprised  Diane,  had  the  vision  been 
vouchsafed  to  her. 

Parsing  over  those  sentences  in  vi^hich  the  tAi 
man  admitted  the  wisdom  of  her  decision  in  reject- 
ing his  proposals,  on  the  ground  that  he  saw  now 
that  the  married  state  would  not  have  suited  him, 
Mrs.  Wappinger  came  to  what  was  of  common 
interest. 

'".  .  .  You  will  remember,  my  good  friend,'"  she 
read,  with  a  strong  Western  accent,  '"that  both  at 
the  time  of,  and  since,  your  husband's  death  I  have 
been  helpful  to  you  in  your  business  affairs,  and 
laid  you  under  some  obligation  to  me.  I  have, 
therefore,  no  scruple  in  asking  you  to  fulfil  a  few 
wishes  of  mine,  in  token  of  such  gratitude  as  I  con- 
ceive you  to  feel.  There  will  arrive  in  your  city 
by  the  steamer  Picardie,  on  the  twenty-eighth  day 
of  this  month,  two  foolish  women,  answering  to  the 
name  of  Eveleth— mother-in-law  and  daughter-in- 
law— both  widows— and  presenting  the  soriy  spec- 
tacle of  Naomi  and  Ruth  returning  to  the  Land  of 
^Promise,  after  a  ruinous  sojourn  in  a  foreign 
countr}'— with  whose  history  you  are  familiar  from 
your  reading  of  the  Scriptures.'" 

"Is  there  a  Bible  in  the  house,  mother?"  Carii 
Wappinger  asked,  swinging  himself  on  the  pian*- 
Kool. 

"I    think    there    must    be — somewhere.     Thcrt 

62 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

used  to  be  one.  But,  hush!  Let  me  go  on.  'They 
will  descend,'"  she  continued  to  read,  '"at  a 
modest  French  hostelry  in  University  Place,  t* 
which  I  have  commended  them,  as  being  within 
their  means.  I  desire,  first,  that  you  will  make 
their  acquaintance  at  your  earliest  possible  con- 
venience. I  desire,  next,  that  you  will  invite  thera 
to  your  house  on  some  occasion,  presumably  in  the 
afternoon,  when  you  can  also  ask  my  nephew, 
Derek  Pruyn,  and  LuciUa  van  Tromp,  my  niece, 
to  meet  them.  I  desire,  furthermore,  that  though 
you  may  use  my  name  to  the  Mesdames  Eveleth,  as 
a  passport  to  their  presence,  you  will  in  no  wise 
speak  of  me  to  my  relatives  in  question,  or  give 
diem  to  understand  that  I  have  inspired  the  in- 
vitation you  will  accord  them.  .  .  .' " 

Mrs.  Wappinger  threw  do\vn  the  letter  with  the 
emphasis  of  gesture  which  was  one  of  her  char- 
acteristics. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  loud,  hearty  voice, 
not  without  a  note  of  triumph;  "that's  what  I  call 
a  chance." 
"  Chance  for  what,  mother  ?" 
"Chance  for  a  good  many  things— and  first  of 
all  for  bearding  LuciUa  van  Tromp  right  in  her 
•wn  den." 
"I  don't  see — " 

"No;   but  I  do.     We're  on  to  a  big  thing.     I've 
B»t  to  go  right  there;   and  she's  got  to  come  right 
63 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

here.  She's  held  off,  and  she's  kept  me  off;  but 
now  the  ice  '11  be  btoken  with  a  regular  thaw." 

"Still,  I  don't  see.  It's  one  thing  to  invite  her, 
to  oblige  old  man  Van  Tromp;  but  it's  another 
thing  to  get  her  to  come." 

"She'll  come  fast  enough — this  time;  she'll  comj 
as  if  she  was  shot  here  by  a  secret  spring.  There 
//  a  secret  spring,  you  may  take  my  word  for  it.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is,  and  I  don't  care;  it's  enough 
for  me  to  know  thit  it's  in  good  working  order — 
which  it  is,  if  James  van  Tromp  has  got  his 
hand  on  it.  James  van  Tromp  may  look  like 
a  foci  and  talk  like  a  fool,  but  he  isn't  a  fool — 
No,  sir!" 

It  is  commonly  believed  that  a  woman  never 
thinks  otherwise  than  gendy  of  the  man  who  har. 
wanted  to  marty  her;  and  if  this  be  the  rule,  Mrs. 
Wappinger  was  no  exception  to  it.  As  she  sat  on 
the  sofa  in  her  son's  room,  the  mere  mention  of 
the  old  man's  name,  attended  by  the  kindly  opinion 
she  had  just  expressed,  sent  her  off  into  sudden 
reverie.  While  it  was  quite  true  that,  in  her  own 
phrase,  she  "would  no  more  have  married  him 
than  she  would  have  married  a  mole,"  it  was  none 
the  leij  flattering  to  have  been  desired.  The  on- 
looker, like  Lucilia  van  Tromp  or  Derek  Pruyn, 
might  wonder  what  were  those  hidden  forces  of 
affinity  which  led  a  man  to  single  Mrs.  Wappinger 
out  of  all  the  women  in  the  world;  but  to  Mrs. 
64 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

Wappinger  herself  the  circumstance  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  pleasing. 

Seeing  her  pensive,  Carli  swung  himself  back  to 
the  keyboard  again,  pounding  out  a  few  bars  of  the 
dance  music  in  Strauss'  Salome,  of  which  the  scoi« 
lay  open  before  him.  He  was  a  good-looking  young 
man  of  twenty-two,  of  whom  any  mother,  not  too 
exacting,  might  be  proud.  Very  blond— with  well- 
chiselled  features  and  waving  hair — net  so  tall  as 
to  make  his  excessive  slimness  seem  disproportionate 
— there  was  something  in  the  perfection  with  which 
he  was  "turned  out"  that  gave  him  the  air  of  a 
"creation."  Mrs.  Wappinger's  joy  in  him  was  the 
more  satisfying  because  of  the  fact  that,  relative 
to  herself,  he  was  in  the  line  of  progress.  He  was 
the  blossom  of  culture,  travel,  and  sport,  borne  by 
her  own  strenuous  generation  of  successful  material 
effort.  To  the  things  to  which  he  had  attained  she 
felt  that  in  a  certain  sense  she  had  attained  herself, 
on  the  principle  offaa't  per  alium,  facit  per  se.  In 
the  social  position  she  had  reached  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  know  that  Harvard,  Europe,  and  money  had 
given  Carli  a  refinement  that  made  up  in  some 
measure  for  her  own  deficiencies. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  he 
asked,  breaking  off  in  the  midst  of  the  cruel  ecstasy 
of  the  daughter  of  Herodias,  and  swinging  himself 
sack,  so  as  to  confront  her. 

'I'm  going  to  give  a  little  tea,"  Mrs,  Wappinger 
65 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

answered,  with  decision;  "a  tay  antime,  as  th« 
French  say.  I  shall  have  these  two  Eveletha — or 
whatever  their  name  is — Lucilla  van  Tromp,  and 
Derek  and  Dorothea  Pruyn." 

"You  may  accomplish  the  first  and  the  last. 
You'll  find  it  difficult  to  fill  in  the  middle.  To 
•ay  nothing  of  the  old  girl,  Derek  Pruyn  is  too  busy 
for  teas — intime,  or  otherwise." 

"I'm  going  to  have  him,"  she  stated,  with  enei^. 
"You  go  round  and  tell  Dorothea  she's  got  to  bring 
him — she's  just  got  to,  that's  all.  He'll  come — ^I 
know  he  will.  There  are  forces  at  work  here  that 
you  and  I  don't  see,  and  if  something  doesn't  hap- 
pen, my  name  isn't  Qara  Wappinger." 

With  this  mysterious  saying  she  rose,  to  leara 
Carii  to  his  music. 

"How  very  occult!"  he  laughed. 

"Nobody  knows  James  van  Tromp  better  than 
I  do,"  she  declared,  with  pride,  turning  on  th« 
threshold,  "and  he  doesn't  write  that  way  unlets 
he  has  a  plan  in  mind.  You  tell  Dorothea  what  I 
•ay.  Let  me  seel  To-day  is  Tuesday;  the  Pi- 
tardit  will  get  in  on  Saturday;  you'll  see  Dorothea 
on  Sunday;  and  we'll  have  the  tea  on  Thursday 
Hext." 

With  her  habitual  air  of  triumphant  decision  Mn. 
Wappinger  departed,  and  the  incident  dosed. 


IT  must  be  admitted  that  Diane  Eveleth  found 
1  her  entiy  mto  the  Land  of  Promise  rather  dis- 
appointing    To  outward   things   she  paid   com- 
paratively httle  heed.     The  general  aspect  of  New 
York  was  what  she  had  seen  in  pictures  and  ex- 
pected.   That  habits  and  customs  should  be  strange 
to  her  she  took  as  a  matter  of  course;  and  she  wtt 
too  eager  for  a  welcome  to  be  critical.    As  a  French- 
woman, she  was  neither  curious  nor  analytical  re. 
garding  that  which   lay   outside   her  immediate 
sphere  of  interest,  and  she  instituted  no  compari- 
sons between   Broadway  and  the  boulevards,  or 
>ny  of  the.  tall  buildings  and  Notre  Dame.     It  may 
be  confessed  that  her  thoughts  went  scarcely  hi 
yond  the  human  element,  with  its  possible  b/arine 
on  her  fortunes.  * 

In  this  respect  she  made  the  discovery  that  Mrs. 
Eveleth  was  not  to  be  taken  as  an  authoring.     She 

Naomi  de  Ruyter  to  New  York  would  be  a  matter 

Hes.     and  that  they  would  scarcely  have  landed 
67 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

before  finding  themselves  amid  people  whom  she 
knew.  But  forty  years  had  made  a  difference,  and 
Mrs.  Eveleth  recognized  no  familiar  faces  in  the 
crowd  congregated  on  the  dock.  When  it  became 
further  evident  that  not  only  was  Naomi  de  Ruyter 
forgotten  in  the  city  of  her  birth,  but  that  the  veiy 
landmarks  she  remembered  had  been  swept  away, 
there  was  a  moment  of  disillusion,  not  free  from 
tears. 

To  Diane  the  discovery  meant  only  that,  more 
than  she  had  supposed,  she  would  have  to  depend 
upon  herself.  This,  to  her,  was  the  appalling  fact 
that  dwarfed  all  other  considerations.  To  be  alone, 
while  the  crowds  surged  hurriedly  by  her,  was  one 
thing;  to  be  obliged  to  press  in  among  them  and 
make  room  for  herself  was  another.  As  she  walked 
aimlessly  about  the  streets  during  the  few  days  fol- 
lowing her  arrival  she  had  the  forlorn  conviction 
that  in  these  serried  ranks  there  could  be  no  place 
for  one  so  insignificant  as  she.  The  knowledge  that 
ihe  must  make  such  a  place,  or  go  without  food  and 
shelter,  only  served  to  paralyze  her  energies  and 
reduce  her  to  a  state  of  nerveless  inefficiency. 

She  had  gone  forth  one  day  with  the  letters  of 
introduction  she  hoped  would  help  her,  only  to 
find  that  none  of  the  persons  to  whom  they  were 
addressed  had  returned  to  town  for  the  winter. 
Tired  and  discouraged,  she  was  endeavoring  on 
her  tetum  to  cheer  Mrs.  Eveleth  with  such  bits  of 
68 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

forced  humor  as  she  could  squeeze  out  of  the  com* 
monplace  happenings  of  the  day,  when  cards  were 
brought  in,  bearing  t'.e  unknown  name  of  Mrs. 
Wappingcr. 

That  in  this  hufc,  ci-prwhelTiii^  fown  any  one 
could  desire  to  luikc  tlTiu  acquaii-ance  was  in 
itself  a  surprise;  bui  m  ch  ;  ir.'i'i.-v.  that  followed 
Diane  felt  as  th.jgh  she  Ivu  heon  taught  up  in  a 
whirlwind  and  curriea  a\  ar.  Mrs.  VVappirger's 
autocratic  breeziness  was  so  r  jve'  in  character  that 
ihe  had  no  more  tho'jn;!'.!;  of  resisting  it  than  of 
resisting  a  summer  stonn.  Sha  could  only  let  it 
blow  over  her  and  bear  her  whither  it  listed.  In 
the  end  she  felt  like  some  wayfarer  in  the  Arabian 
Nights,  who  has  b-  :n  wafted  by  kindly  jinn  across 
unknown  miles  of  space,  and  set  down  again  many 
leagues  farther  on  in  his  career. 

Never  in  her  life  did  Diane  receive  in  the  same 
amount  of  time  so  much  personal  informarion  as 
Mrs.  Wappinger  conveyed  in  the  thirty  minutes 
her  visit  lasted.  She  began  by  explainmg  that  she 
was  a  friend  of  James  van  Tromp's — a  very  great 
friend.  In  fact,  her  husband  had  been  at  one  rime 
a  partner  in  die  Van  Tromp  banking-house;  but  it 
was  an  old  business,  and  what  they  call  conservadve, 
while  Mr.  Wappinger  was  from  the  West.  The 
West  was  a  long  way  ahead  of  New  York,  though 
Mrs.  Wappinger  had  "lived  East"  so  long  that  she 
had  dropped  into  walking  pace  like  the  rest.  She 
69 


THE     INNER      S  H  R  T  M  n 
meed  her  rise  from  a  comparatively  obscure  positioa 
""       ilr"'  «,^"  P'*'"*'  eminence,  and  gave  details 
«  to  Mr.  Wappmger's  courtship  and  the  number 
of  chddi^n  she  had  lost.    Left  now  with  one,  she 
had  spent  a  good  deal  of  money  on  him.  and  was 
teppy  to  say  that  he  showed  it.     While  she  pre- 
ferred not  to  name  names,  she  made  no  secret 
of  the  fact  that  Carli  was  in  love;   though  for  her 
own  part  a  feeling  of  wounded  pride  induced  her 
to  hope  that  he  would  never  enter  a  family  where 
he  wasn  t  wanted:    The  transition  of  topic  having 
thus  become  easy,  the  invitation  to  tea  was  given 
«nd  Its  acceptance  taken  as  a  matter  of  course. 

It  11  only  be  a  iay  antlme,"  she  declared,  m 
answer  to  Diane's  faint  protests,  "so  you  needn't 
be  afraid  to  come;  ana  .s  I  never  do  things  by 
li;dves  I  shall  send  one  of  my  automobiles  for  the 
old  ady  and  you  at  a  little  after  four  to-morrow." 
With  these  words  and  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand, 
she  bustled  away  as  suddenly  as  she  had  come 
kaving  Diane  with  a  bewildering  sense  of  havinr 
beheld  an  appariaon.  * 

It  was  not  less  surprising  to  Diane  to  find  herself. 
on  the  following  afternoon,  face  to  face  with  Derek 
Fruyn.  Though  she  had  expected,  in  so  far  as  she 
Aought  of  him  at  all,  that  chance  would  one  day 
throw  them  together,  she  had  not  suppo  ied  that  the 
•rcntwouldoccursosoon.  The  lack  of  preparation, 
70 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
the  change  in  her  fortunes,  and  the  necessity  to  e» 
plain,  combined  to  bring  about  one  of  those  ran 
moments  m  which  she  found  herself  at  a  loss. 

On  his  side,  Pruyn  had  come  to  the  house  with 
a  veiy  special  purpose.     In   spite   of  the   stout- 
Hess  of  his  protest  when  young  Wappinger^s  name 
was  coupled  with  his  child's,  he  was  not  without 
some  mward  misgivings,  which  he  resolved  to  allar 
once  and  for  all.     He  would  dispel  them  by  seeing 
with  his  own  eyes  that  they  had  no  force,  while  he 
would  convict  Miss  LuciUa  of  groundless  alarm  by 
•cular  demonstration.     It  would  be  enough,  he  wm 
sure,  to  watch  the  young  people  together  to  prove 
beyond  cavil  that  Dorothea  was  aware  of  the  gulf 
between  the  son  of  Mrs.  Wappinger,  worthy  woman 
though    she   might    be,    and   a   daughter   of  the 
i'ruyns.     He  had,  therefore,  astonished  every  one 
not  only  by  accepting  the  invitation  himself,  but 
by  insisting  that  Miss  Lucilla  should  do  the  same, 
forcing  her  thus  to  become  a  v/itness  to  tlie  vindica- 
tion of  his  wiidom. 

Arrived  on  the  spot,  however,  it  vexed  him  to 
tad  diat  mstead  of  being  a  mere  spectator,  per 
mitted  to  take  notes  at  his  ease,  he  was  passed  from 
lady  to  lady-Mrs.  Wappinger,  Miss  Lucilla,  Mrs. 
tveleth,  in  turn-only  to  find  himself  settled  down 
at  last  with  a  strange  young  womar.  in  widow's 
weeds,  in  a  dim  comer  of  the  drawing-room  The 
meeting  was  the  more  abrupt  owing  to  the  circu». 
71 


ill  I 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

nance  that  Diane,  unaware  of  his  arrival,  had  just 
emerged  from  the  adjoining  ball-room,  which  was 
decorated  for  a  dance.  Mrs.  Wappinger,  coming 
forward  at  that  minute  with  a  cup  of  tea  for  her, 
pronounced  their  names  with  hurried  indistinctness, 
and  left  them  together. 

With  her  quick  eye  for  small  social  indications, 
Diane  saw  that,  owing  to  the  dimness  of  the  toom 
and  the  nature  of  her  dress,  he  did  not  know  her, 
while  he  resented  the  necessity  for  talking  to  one 
person,  when  he  was  obwously  looking  about  for 
another.  With  her  tea-cup  in  her  hand  she  slipped 
into  a  chair,  so  that  he  had  no  choice  but  to  sit 
down  beside  her. 

He  was  not  what  is  called  a  lady's  man,  and  in 
the  most  fluent  of  moods  his  supply  of  easy  conver- 
sation was  small.  On  the  present  occasion  he  felt 
the  urgency  of  speech  without  inspiration  to  meet 
the  need.  With  a  furtive  flutter  of  the  eyelids, 
while  she  sipped  her  tea,  she  took  in  the  salient 
changes  the  last  five  years  had  produced  in  him, 
noting  in  particular  t^at  though  slightly  older 
he  had  improved  in  looks,  and  that  the  dark- 
red  carnation  still  held  its  place  in  his  button- 
hole. 

"Very   unseasonable  weather   for  the   time  of 
jrear,"  he  managed  to  stammer,  at  last. 
"Is  it?     I  hadn't  noticed." 
His  manner  took  on  a  shade  of  dignity  still  more 
n 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

severe,  as  he  wondered  whether  this  reply  was  a 
snub  or  a  mere  ineptitude. 

"You   don't  worry   about  such   trifles   as  the 
weather,"  he  struggled  on. 
"Not  often." 

"May  I  ask  how  you  escape  the  necessity?" 
"  By  having  more  pressing  things  to  think  about." 
With  the  finality  of  this  reply  the  brief  conversa- 
tion dropped,  though  tlie  perception  on  Derek's 
part  that  it  was  not  from  her  inability  to  carry  it 
on  stirred  him  to  an  unusual  feeling  of  pique.  Most 
of  the  women  he  met  were  ready  to  entertain  him 
without  putting  him  to  any  exertion  whatever.  They 
even  went  so  far  as  to  manifest  a  disposition  to  be 
agreeable,  before  which  he  often  found  it  necessaiy 
to  retire.  Without  being  fatuous  on  the  point,  he 
could  not  be  unaware  of  the  general  conviction  that 
a  wealthy  widower,  who  could  still  call  himself 
young,  must  be  in  want  of  a  wife;  and  as  long  as 
he  was  unconscious  of  the  need  himself,  he  judged 
it  wise  to  be  as  litde  as  possible  in  feminine  society. 
On  the  rare  occasions  when  he  ventured  therein 
he  was  not  able  to  complain  of  a  lack  of  welcome; 
nor  could  he  remember  an  instance  in  which  his 
hesitating,  somewhat  scornful,  advances  had  not 
been  cordially  met,  until  to-day.  The  immediate 
effect  was  to  cause  him  to  look  at  Diane  with  a 
closer,  if  somewhat  haughty,  attention,  their  eyes 
meeting  as  he  did  so.  Her  voice,  with  its  blending 
73 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
of  French  and  Irish  elements,  had  already  made 
Its  appeal  to  his  memory,  so  that  the  minute  was 
one  in  which  the  presentiment  of  recognition  came 
before  the  recognition  itself.  In  his  surprise  he 
half  arose  from  his  chair,  resuming  his  seat  as  he 
exclaimed: 

"It's  Mademoiselle  de  la  Ferronaise!" 

His  astonished  tone  and  awe-struck  manner 
called  to  Diane's  lips  a  little  smile. 

"It  used  to  be,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  natu- 
rally;  "it's  Mrs.  Eveleth  now." 

"Yes,"  he  responded,  with  the  absent  air  of  a 
man  getting  his  wits  together;  "I  remember;  that 
Was  the  name." 

"You  knew,  then,  that  I'd  been  married?" 

"Yes;   but  I  didn't  know—" 

His  glance  ;jt  her  dress  finished  the  sentence, 
«nd  she  hastened  to  reply. 

"No;  of  course  not.  My  husband  died  at  the 
beginning  of  last  summer— six  months  ago  I 
hoped  some  one  would  have  told  you  before  we  met. 
But  we  have  not  many  common  acquaintances, 
have  we  f 

"I  hope  we  may  have  more  now— if  you're  mak- 
ing a  visit  to  New  York." 
^'I'm  making  more  than  a  visit;  I  expect  to  stay." 
^  Oh  I    Do  you  think  you'll  like  that  ?" 
"It  isn't  a  question  of  liking;  it's  a  question  of 
fcnng.    I  may  as  weU  tell  you  at  once  that  sinc« 
74 


DBAWH  Br  FRANK  eUAIC 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

my  husband's   death  I  have   my  own  btead  •• 
earn. 

To  no  Frenchwoman  of  her  rank  in  life  could  thk 
statement  have  been  an  easy  one,  but  by  making 
it  with  a  certain  quiet  outspokenness  she  hoped  to 
cover  up  her  foolish  sense  of  shame.  The  moment 
was  not  made  less  difficult  for  her  by  the  astonisli- 
ment,  mingled  with  embarrassment,  with  which  h« 
took  her  remark. 

"You!"  he  cried.     "You!" 

"  It  isn't  anything  veiy  unusual,  is  it  ?"  she  smfled. 
"  I'm  not  the  first  person  in  the  world  to  make  th* 
attempt." 

"And  may  I  ask  if  you're  succeeding?" 

"  I  haven't  begun  yet.  I  only  arrived  a  few  days 
ago." 

"Oh,  I  see.     You've  come  here — " 

"In  the  hope  of  finding  employment — just  lik* 
the  rest  of  the  disinherited  of  the  earth.  I  hope  to 
give  French  lessons,  and—" 

"  There's  always  an  opening  to  any  one  who  can," 
he  interrupted,  encouragingly.  "I'm  not  without 
influence  in  one  or  two  good  schools  that  my  daugh- 
ter has  attended — " 

"Is  that  your  daughter?"  she  asked,  glad  w 
escape  from  her  subject,  now  that  it  was  stated 
plainly — "  the  very  pretty  girl  in  red  ?" 

The  question  gave  Pruyn  the  excuse  he 
for  looking  about  him. 

75 


I 


THE     I  N  N  E 

"l  believe  she's  in  red— but  I  don't  see  her  » 
He  sear.V-d  the  dimly  lighted  room,  where  Mrs. 
Wappmger  sa^  silent  and  satisfied,  behind  her  tea- 
table  while  Mrs.  Eveleth  was  conversing  with 
Luc^la  on  Kinckerbocker  genealogy;  but  neither 
of  Che  young  people  was  to  be  seen.  His  look  of 
«nwc  ,  id  not  escape  Diane,  who  responded  to  it 
wita    _er  usual  straightforward  promptness. 

a  foncy  she's  still  in  the  ball-room  with  young 
Mr.  Wappmger,"  she  explained.  "We  were  all 
Aere  a  few  minutes  ago,  looking  at  the  decorations 
for  the  dance  Mrs.  Wappinger  is  giving  to-night 
it  was  before  yoa  came." 

The  shadow  that  shoe  across  his  face  was  a  thine 
to  be  noticed  only  by  one  accustomed  to  read  the 
most  trmal  signs  in  the  social  sky.     In  an  instant 

r*?r  '\^^  "=""  P°'"'*  "f  '^^  "««  as  accurately 
as  If  Mrs.  Wappinger  had  named  those  names  over 
which  she  had  shown  such  laudable  reserve 

Wouldn't  you  like  to  sec  them.?~the  decora- 
uoosf    They  re  veiy  pretty.     It's  just  ii.  he.e." 

ihe  rose  as  she  spoke,  with  a  gesture  of  the  hand 
toward  the  ball-room.  He  followed,  because  she 
led  the  way,  but  without  seeing  the  meaning  of  the 
move  until  they  were  actually  on  the  polished  danc- 
ing-ioor.  Owing  to  the  darkness  of  the  Decem- 
ber afternoon,  the  large  empty  room  was  lit  up  as 
brilhandy  as  at  night.  For  a  minute  they  stood  on 
the  threshold,  lookmg  absently  at  the  palms  grouped 
76 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

in  the  comers  and  the  garlands  festooning  the  walls. 
It  was  only  then  that  Pruj-n  saw  the  motive  of  her 
coming;  and  for  an  instant  he  forgot  his  worry  in 
the  perception  that  this  woman  had  divined  hi( 
thought. 

"There's  no  one  here,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  tone 
of  relief,  which  betrayed  him  once  more. 

"No,"  Diane  replied,  half  turning  round.  "Per- 
haps we  had  better  go  back  to  the  drawing-room. 
My  mother-in-law  will  be  getting  tired." 

"Wait,"  he  said,  imperiously.     "Isn't  that—?" 

He  was  again  conscious  of  having  admitted  her 
into  a  sort  of  confidence;  but  he  had  scarcely  time 
to  regret  it  before  there  was  a  flash  of  red  between 
the  tail  potted  shrubs  that  screened  an  alcove. 
Dorothea  sauntered  into  view,  with  Carli  Wap- 
pinger,  bending  slightly  over  her,  walking  by  her 
side.  They  were  too  deep  in  conversation  to  know 
themselves  observed;  but  the  earnestness  with 
which  the  young  man  spoke  became  evident  when 
he  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  gently  on  the  muff 
Dorothea  held  before  her.  In  the  act,  from  which 
Dorothea  did  not  draw  back,  there  was  nothing 
beyond  the  admission  of  a  certain  degree  of  in- 
timacy; but  Diane  felt,  through  all  her  highly 
trained  subconscious  sensibilities,  the  shock  it  pio- 
duced  in  Derek's  mind. 

The  situation  belonged  too  entirely  to  the  classic 
repertoire  of  life  to  present  any  difficulties  to  a 
77 


THE     INNER      S  H  P   r  at  ^ 

woman  who  knew  that  catastrophe  is  often  avened 
l»y  keeping  close  to  the  commonplace 

Isn't  she  pretty!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of 
polite  enthusiasm.  "Mayn't  I  speak  to  her?  I 
kaven't  met  her  yet." 

Before  she  had  finished  the  concluding  words. 
«^  Wappmger  had  withdrawn  his  hand  from 
Dorotheas  muff,  she  had  glided  across  the  floor. 
«d  disturbed  the  young  people  from  their  absorpi 
Hon  m  each  other.  "^ 

"Mr.  Wappinger."  Derek  heard  her  say.  as  he 
approached.  'I  want  you  to  introduce  me  to  Mis. 
Pruy^.  I  m  Mrs.  Eveleth.  Miss  Pruyn."  she  con- 
onued.  without  waiting  for  Carli's   intermedian- 

.t:Sto;our"'^^-^^--^''--^'"«i- 

If  she  supposed  she  was  coming  to  Dorothea's 
r«cue  m  a  moment  which  might  be  one  of  em- 
barrassment, she  found  herself  mistaken.     No  ex- 
p*nenced  dowager  could  have  been  more  amiable 
to  a  nice  governess  than  Dorothea  Pruyn  to  a  lady 
«  reduced  circumstances.     A  facility  in  adapting 
,herself  to  other  people's  manners  enabled  Dianf 
to  accept  her  cue;   and  presently  all  four  were  on 
Ae  r  ,,,y  back  to  the  drawing-room,  where  fare- 
wells  were  spoken. 

VVhile  Miss  LuciUa  was  making  Mrs.  Eveleth 
«^w  her  promise   to   come   and  see   her,  and 
«>nng  young   Mrs.   Eveleth   with   her."  Pruyn 
78  ' 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

found    an    opportunity    for    another    word    witli 
Diane. 

"You  must  understand,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  which 
he  tried  to  make  one  of  explanation  for  her  en- 
Ughtenment  rather  than  of  apology  for  Dorothea— 
"you  must  understand  that  girls  have  a  good  deal 
of  liberty  in  America." 

"They  have  everywhere,"  she  rejoined.  "Even 
in  France,  where  they've  been  kept  so  strictly,  the 
old  law  of  Purdah  has  been  more  or  less  relaxed." 

"If  you  take  up  teaching  as  a  work,  you'll  nat- 
urally be  thrown  among  our  young  people;  and 
you  may  see  things  to  which  it  will  be  difficult  to 
adjust  your  mind." 

"I've  had  a  good  deal  of  practice  in  adjusting 
my  mind.  It  often  seems  to  me  as  movable  at  if 
it  was  on  a  pivot.     I'm  ratJier  ashamed  of  it." 

"You  needn't  be.  On  the  contrar)',  you'll  find 
it  especially  useful  in  this  country,  where  foreigners 
are  often  eager  to  convert  us  to  dieir  customs,  while 
we  are  tenacious  of  our  own." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  in  the  spirit  of  meekness 
his  didactic  attitude  seemed  to  require.  "I'll  try 
to  remember  that,  and  not  fall  into  the  mistake." 

'And  if  I  can  do  anytliing  for  you,"  he  went  on, 

awkwardly,    "in    the    way    of   schools— or-or— 

recommendations— you  know  I  promised  long  ag* 

that  if  you  ever  needed  any  one — " 

"Thank  you  once  more,"  she  laid,  hurriBdly, 

79 


Miatoconr  msouition  test  cma>t 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHAliT  No.  2) 


1.0 


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■  2J 

1^ 

4.0 

12.0 

|l-8 

1^  1^  m 


J  /APPLIED  I^A^GE    Inc 

S:^'  1653   East   Main   StrNt 

\S  Rochester.   Htm   Yort.         14509       USA 

=  (7T6)  483  -  0300  -  Phone 

:^  (716)   283-  5969  -  Fa> 


1  : 

u 

1! 

■! 

THE      INNER      SHRINE 

before  he  had  time  to  go  on.  "I  know  I  can  count 
on  your  help;  and  if  I  require  a  good  word,  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  ask  you  for  it." 

As  she  slipped  away,  Pruyn  was  left  witli  the 
uncomfortable  sense  of  having  appeared  to  a  dis- 
advantage.    He  had  been  stilted  and  patronizing, 
when  he  had  meant  to  be  con'.ial  and  kind.     On 
the  other  hand,  he   resented  the   quickness  with 
which  she  had  read  his  thoughts,  as  well  as  her  per- 
ception that  he  had  ground  for  uneasiness  regard- 
uig  his  child.    That  she  should  penetrate  the  inner 
shnne  of  reserve  he  kept  closed  against  those  who 
stood  nearest  to  him  in  the  world  gave  him  a  sense 
of  injury;    and  he  turned  this  feeling  to  account 
during  the  next  few  hours  in  trying  to  deaden  the 
echo  of  the  French  voice  with  the  Irish  intonation 
that  haunted  his  inner  hearing,  as  well  as  to  banish 
the  memory  of  the  plaintive  smile  in  which,  as  he 
feared,  meekness  was  blended  with  amusement  at 
his  expense. 


VI 


IF  the  secret  spring  worked  bj  James  van  Tromp 
had  been  an  active  agency  in  bringing  Diane  and 
Derek  Pruyn  once  more  together,  as  well  as  in 
creating  the  intimacy  that  sprang  up  during  the 
next  two  months  between  Miss  Luci'la  and  the 
elder  Mrs.  Eveleth,  it  had  certainly  notliing  to  do 
with  the  South  American  complications  in  the 
business  of  Van  Tromp  &  Co.,  which  made  Pruyn's 
departure  for  Rio  de  Janeiro  a  possibility  of  the 
near  future.  He  had  long  foreseen  that  he  would 
be  obliged  to  make  the  journey  sooner  or  later,  but 
that  he  should  have  to  do  it  just  now  was  particu- 
larly inconvenient.  There  was  but  one  aspect  in 
which  the  expedition  might  prove  a  blessing  in  dis- 
guise— he  might  take  Dorothea  with  him. 

During  the  six  or  eight  weeks  following  the  after- 
noon at  Mrs.  Wappinger's  he  had  bestowed  upon 
Dorothea  no  small  measure  of  attention,  obtaining 
much  the  same  result  as  a  mastiff  might  gain  from 
his  investigation  of  the  ways  of  a  bird  of  paradise. 
He  informed  himself  as  to  her  diversions  and  her 
dancing-classes,  making  the  discovery  that  what 
8i 


ill 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

other  girls'  mothers  did  for  them.  Dorothea  was 
doing  for  herself.    As  far  as  he  could  see,  she  was 
bnngmg  herself  up  with  the  aid  of  a  chosen  band 
of  eligible,  well-conducted  young  men,  varying  in 
age  from  nineteen  to  twenty-two,  whom  she  was 
training  as  a  sort  of  body-guard  against  the  day  of 
her    coiiimg  out."    On  the  occasions  when  he  had 
opportunities  for  observation  he  noted  the  skill  with 
which  she  managed  them,  as  well  as  the  chivalry 
With  which  they  treated  her;   and  yet  there  was  in 
die  situation  an  indefinable  element  that  displeased 
him.     It  was  something  of  a  shock  to  learn  that 
4e  flower  he  thought  he  was  cultivating  in  se- 
cluded  sweetness   under  glass   had   taken   root  of 
Its  own  accord  in  the  midst  of  young  New  York'* 
great,  gay  parterre.     Aware  of  tlie  possibilities  of 
this  soil  to  produce  over-stimulated  growdi,  he  could 
think  of  nothing  better  than  to  pluck  it  up  and, 
temporarily  at  least,  transplant  it  elsewhere.     Hav- 
ing come  to  the  decision  overnight,  he  made  the 
proposition  when   they  met   at   breakfast  in   the 
morning. 

A  prettier  object  than  Miss  Dorothea  Pruyn,  at 
the  head  of  her  father's  table,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  find  in  the  whole  range  of  "  dainty  rogues 
in  porcelain."  From  the  top  of  her  bronze-colored 
hair  to  the  tip  of  her  bronze-colored  shoes  she  was 
as  complete  as  taste  could  make  her.  The  flash  of 
her  eyes  as  she  lifted  them  suddenly,  and  as  sud- 
82 


i 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

denly  dropped  them,  over  her  task  among  the 
coffee-cups  was  hke  that  of  summer  waters;  whik 
the  rapture  of  youth  was  in  her  smile,  and  a  be- 
coming school-girl  shyness  in  her  fleeting  blushes. 
In  the  floral  language  of  American  society,  she  wa» 
"not  a  bud";  she  was  only  that  small,  hard,  green 
thing  out  of  which  the  bud  is  to  unfold  itself,  but 
which  does  not  lack  a  beauty  of  promise  specially 
its  own.  If  any  criticism  could  be  passed  upon 
her,  it  was  tjiat  which  her  father  made  — that 
there  was  danger  of  the  promise  being  anticipated 
by  a  rather  premature  fulfilment,  and  the  flower 
that  needed  time  forced  into  a  hurried,  hot-house 
bloom. 

"What!  And  leave  my  friends!"  she  exclaimed, 
when  Derek,  with  some  hesitation,  '  asked  her 
how  she  would  like  the  journey. 

"They  would  keep." 

"That's  just  what  they  wouldn't  do.  When  I 
came  back  I  should  find  them  in  all  sorts  of  new 
combinations,  out  of  which  I  should  be  dropped. 
You've  got  to  !-•  n  the  spot  to  keep  in  your  set, 
otherwise  you'r      jst." 

"  Why  should  you  be  in  a  set  ?  Why  shouldn't 
you  be  independent  i" 

"That  just  shows  how  much  you  under-^tand, 

father,"  she  said,  pityingly.     "A  girl  who  isn't  in 

a  set  is  as  much  an  outsider  as  a  Hindoo  who  isn't 

in  a  caste.     I  must  know  people;  and  I  must  know 

83 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

the  right  people;  and  I  must  know  no  one  but  the 
right  people.     It's  perfectly  simple." 

"Oh,  perfectly.  I  can't  help  wondering,  though, 
how  you  recognize  the  right  people  when  you  see 
them." 

"By  instinct.  You  couldn't  make  a  mistake 
about  that,  any  more  than  one  pigeon  could  make 
a  mistake  about  another,  or  take  it  for  a  crow." 

"And  is  young  Wappinger  one  of  the  right 
people  V 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  Derek  made  up  his 
mind  to  broach  this  subject,  but  Dorothea's  self- 
possession  was  not  disturbed. 

"Certainly,"  she  replied,  briefly,  with  perhaps 
a  slight  accentuation  of  her  maiden  dignity. 

"I'm  rather  surprised  at  that." 

"Yes;  you  nhould  be,"  she  cCiiceiied;  "but  I 
couldn't  make  you  understand  it,  any  more  than 
you  could  make  me  understand  banking." 

"I'm  not  convinced  of  the  impossibility  of  either," 
he  objected,  knocking  the  top  off  an  egg.  "Sup- 
pose you  were  to  try." 

Dorothea  shook  her  head. 

"It  wouldn't  be  of  any  use.  The  fact  is,  I  really 
don't  understand  it  myself.  What's  more,  I  don't 
suppose  anybody  else  does.  Carli  Wappinger  be- 
longs to  the  right  people  because  the  right  people 
say  he  docs;  and  there  is  no  more  to  be  said  about 
it." 

84 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"I  sliould  think  that  Mrs.  Wappingcr  might  be 
a — drawback." 

"Not  if  the  right  people  don't  think  so;  and 
they  don't.  They've  taken  her  up,  aiid  they  ask 
her  everywhere;  but  they  couldn't  tell  you  why 
they  do  it,  any  more  than  birds  could  tell  you  why 
they  migrate.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  don't  care. 
They  just  do  it,  and  let  it  be." 

"That  sort  of  election  and  predestination  may 
be  very  convenient  for  Mrs.  Wappinger,  but  I 
should  think  you  might  have  reasons  for  not  caring 
to  indorse  it." 

"I  haven't.  Why  should  I,  more  than  anybody 
else." 

"You've  so  much  social  perspicacity  that  I  hoped 
you  would  see  without  my  having  to  tell  you.  It's 
chiefly  a  question  of  antecedents." 

Dorothea  looked  thoughtful,  her  head  tipped  to 
one  side,  as  she  buttered  a  bit  of  toast. 

"I  know  that's  an  important  point,"  she  ad- 
mitted, "but  it  isn't  everything.  You've  got  to 
look  at  things  al!  round,  and  not  mistake  your 
shadow  for  your  bone." 

"I'm  glad  you  see  there  is  a  shadow." 

"I  see  there  is  only  a  shadow." 

"A  shadow  on — what.?" 

Pruyn  meant  this  for  a  leading  question,  and  ai 
such  Dorothea  took  it.     She  ga/ed  at  him  for  a 
minute  with  the  clear  eyes  and  straightforward  ex- 
8-: 


THE      I N  N  E  A      SHRINE 

pression  that  were  so  essential  a  part  of  her  dainty, 
self-reliant  personality.  If  she  was  bracing  her- 
»elf  for  an  effort,  there  was  no  external  sign  of  it. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,  father,"  she  said,  "that 
Carii  Wappinger  has  asked  me  to  marty  him." 

For  a  long  minute  Derek  sat  with  body  seem- 
mgly  stunned,  but  with  mind  busily  searching  for 
(he  wisest  way  in  which  to  take  this  astounding  bit 
of  information.  At  the  end  of  many  seconds  of 
•ilence  he  exploded  in  loud  laughter,  choosing 
this  method  of  treating  Dorothea's  confidence  in 
order  to  impress  her  with  the  ludicrous  aspect 
of  the  affair,  as  it  must  appear  to  the  grown-up 
mind. 

"Funny,  isn't  it,?"  she  remarked,  dryly,  when  he 
thought  it  advisable  to  grow  calmer. 

"It's  not  only  funny;  it's  the  drollest  thing  I 
ever  heard  in  my  life." 

"I  thought  it  might  strike  you  that  way.  Tha  's 
why  I  told  you." 

"And  what  did  you  tell  him,  if  I  may  ask  ?" 

"  I  told  him  it  was  out  of  the  question — for  the 
present." 

"For  the  present!  That's  good.  But  why  the 
reservation  .i'" 

"  I  couldn't  tell  him  it  would  be  out  of  the  ques- 
tion always,  because  I  didn't  know.    As  .ong  as 
he  didn't  ask  me  for  a  definite  answer,  I  didn't  fed 
obliged  to  give  him  one." 
86 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"1  think  you  might  have  committed  yourself  at 
far  as  that." 

"I  prefer  not  to  commit  mj'self  at  all.  I'm  »«ry 
young  and  inexperienced — " 

"I'm  glad  you  see  that." 

"Though  neither  so  inexperienced  nor  so  young 
as  mamma  was  when  she  married  you.  And  you 
were  only  twenty-one  yourself,  father,  while  CarK 
is  nearly  twenl;^ -three." 

"  I  wouldn't  compare  the  t\vo  instances  if  1  wen 
you." 

"I  don't.  I  m.rely  s'ate  the  facts.  I  want  to 
make  it  plain  thnt,  though  we're  both  very  young, 
we're  not  so  young  as  to  make  the  case  exceptional." 

"  But  I  understood  you  to  say  that  there  was  no 
—case." 

"There  is  to  this  extent:  that  while  I'-n  free> 
Carii  considers  himself  bound.  That's  the  waj* 
we've  left  it." 

"That  is  to  s?.y,  he's  engaged,  but  you  aren't" 

"That's  what  Carli  diinks." 

'Then  I  refuse  to  consent  to  it." 

"But,  father  dear,"  Dorothea  asked,  arching  hei 
pretty  eyebrows,  "do  you  have  to  consent  to  what 
Carli  thinks  about  himself.?  Can't  he  do  tliat  juit 
as  he  likes  V 

"He  can't  become  a  hanger-on  of  my  famfly 
without  my  permission." 

"He  says  he's  not  going  to  hang  on,  but  to  stand 
8? 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

off.     He's  going  to  allow  me  full  liberty  of  action 
and  fair  play." 
"That's  very  kind  of  him." 
"Only,  when  I  choose  to  come  back  to  him  I 
ihall  find  him  waiting." 

"I  might  suggest  that  you  never  go  back  to  him 
at  all,  only  that  there's  a  better  way  of  meeting 
the  situation.  That  is  to  put  a  stop  to  the  non- 
•ense  now;   and  I  shall  take  steps  to  do  it." 

Dorothea  preserved  her  self-control,  but  two 
tiny  hectic  spots  began  to  bum  in  her  cheeks,  while 
she  kept  her  eyes  persistently  lowered,  as  though 
to  veil  the  spirit  of  determination  glowing  there. 

"Hadn't  you  better  leave  that  to  me  .?"  she  asked, 
after  a  brief  pause. 

"I  will,  if  you  promise  to  put  it  through." 
"You  see,"  she  answered,  in  a  reasoning  tone, 
"my  whole  object  is  not  to  promise  anything — ^yet. 
I  should  think  the  advantage  of  that  would  strike 
you,  if  only  from  the  point  of  view  of  business. 
It's  like  having  the  refusal  of  a  picture  or  a  piece 
of  property.  You  may  never  want  them;  but  it 
does  no  harm  to  know  that  nobody  else  can  gt 
them  till  you  decide." 

'Neither  does  it  do  any  harm  to  let  somebody 
else  have  a  chance,  when  you  know  that  you  can't 
take  them." 

"Of  course  not;  but  I  couldn't  say  that  now.  I 
quite  realize  that  I'm  too  young  to  know  my  own 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

mind;  and  it's  only  rca.  lable  to  consider  thingt 
all  round.  Carli  is  ric'  and  good-looking.  He 
has  a  cultivated  mind  and  a  kind  heart.  There  are 
lots  of  men,  to  whom  you'd  have  no  objection  what- 
ever, who  wouldn't  possess  all  those  qualifications 
or  perhaps  any  of  them." 

"Nevertheless,  I  should  imagine  that  the  fact  that 

I  have  objections  would  have  its  weight  with  you." 

"Naturally;  and  yei:  you  would  neitiier  force  me 

into  what  I  didn't  like  to  do,  nor  refuse  me  what  I 

wanted." 

With  this  definition  of  his  parental  attitude 
Dorothea  pushed  back  her  ch:.ir  and  moved  sedately 
from  the  room. 

Physically,  Derek  was  able  to  go  or.  with  his 
breakfast  and  finish  it,  but  mentally  he  was  like  a 
man,  accustomed  to  action,  who  suddenly  finds 
Aimself  paralyzed.  To  the  best  of  his  knowledge 
he  had  never  before  been  put  in  ^.  position  in  which 
he  had  no  idea  whatever  as  to  what  to  do.  He  had 
been  placed  in  some  puzzling  dilemmas  in  private 
life,  and  had  passed  through  some  serious  crises  in 
financial  affairs,  but  he  had  always  been  able  to 
take  some  course,  e  en  if  it  was  a  mistaken  one. 
It  had  been  reserved  for  Dorothea  to  cher'cmate 
him  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  not  move  ac  all 

That    the    feminine    mind   possessed    rtSoUtces 
which  his  own  did  not  was  a  claim  Derek  had 
89 


I 


fi 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

made  it  a  principle  to  deny.  The  theory  on  which 
he  had  brought  up  Dorothea  had  been  based  on 
his  belief  in  his  own  insight  into  his  daughter'^ 
character.  Though  he  was  far  from  abjuring  that 
confidence  even  yet,  nevenhcless,  when  the  suc- 
ceeding days  brought  no  enlightenment  of  counsel, 
and  the  long  journey  to  Soutli  America  became 
more  imminent,  he  was  forced  once  more  to  turn 
his  steps  toward  Gramercy  Park,  and  seek  inspi- 
ration from  the  great,  eternal  mother-spint  of  man- 
kind, as  represented  by  his  cousin. 

Miss  Lucilla  van  Tromp  passed  among  her 
friends  as  a  sort  of  diffident  Minerva.  Though 
deficient  in  outward  charms,  she  was  considered  to 
possess  intellectual  ability;  ard,  having  once  been 
told  that  her  profile  reseml)Ied  George  Eliot's,  she 
made  the  pursuit  of  learning,  music,  and  Knicker- 
bocker genealogy  her  special  aims.  Derek  had, 
all  his  life,  felt  for  her  a  special  tenderness;  and 
having  neither  mother,  wife,  nor  sister,  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  coming  to  her  with  his  cares. 

"You're  a  woman,"  he  declared,  now,  in  sum- 
ming up  his  case.  "You're  a  woman.  If  you'd  been 
married,  you  would  probably  have  had  children. 
You  cught  to  be  able  to  tell  me  exactly  what  to  do." 

Flushes  of  shy  rapture  illumined  and  softened 
her  ill-assorted  features  on  being  cited  as  the  type 
of  maternity  and  sex,  so  that  when  she  replied  it 
was  with  an  air  of  authority. 
90 


THE     INNER      S  H  K  T  rjj, 

aII  ?^'"'/'"/°"  ^hat  to  do,  Derek;  but  Pre 
done  K  already,  and  you  wouldn't  li  ten.  V^ 
should  send  her  to  a  good  school-"  ^ 

..iV  '°^  '«^^,  '■°'-  that.     She  wouldn't  go." 
n-.en  you  should  have  some  woman  to  live  in 
your  house  who  would  be  wise  enough  to  Jlna^ 

"No." 

He  jerked  out  the  monosyllable,  and  becan  ac 
cording  to  his  custom  when  Duz4d  °  S''"*  ^J 
to  s.ide  up  and  down  the  HbL;  '^^  "  ''""^y^'- 

hous"»  '^  ''°'"  ^°"  '°  ''^  =»  """g"  in  the 

"Naturally." 

"And  so  you  would  sacrifice  Dorothea  to  v ^ 
personal  convenience  "  '  "*' 

to'^Hhit,'''  '^f"\--  -  -o-nan  competent 
»  Jake  the  place;   but  there  isn't."  *^ 

"Who?""'     '^''^''^''  °''"^  Eveleth." 

.•tcTtt"l7f  .''^"u-^^'P'  '"'°  '''^  f-e  -ade 
purpose  of""'  ^  ^^^•'^^  'l^f """  --  "°t  put  for 
Derek  d„?  '"'?™^''°n-     She  had   remarked  in 

p  ared  on  the  scene,  Lucilla  had  noticed  that  h 

01 


i 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

was  flight  with  a  curious  tendency  to  looking  back- 
ward. 

"I  said  Diane  Eveleth,"  she  replied,  in  tactful 
answer  to  his  superfluous  question;  "and  I  assure 
you  she's  fully  equal  to  the  duties  you  v^ould  re- 
quire of  her.  I  suppose  you've  never  noticed  her 
especially —  f " 

"I  used  to  know  her  a  little,"  he  said,  in  an  off- 
hand manner.     "I've  seen  her  here.     That's  all." 

"  If  a  woman  cofild  have  been  made  on  purpose 
for  what  you  want,  it's  she." 

"Dear  me!     You  don't  say  so!" 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  be  sarcastic  about  it,  Derek. 
She's  not  the  one  to  suffer  by  it;  it's  Dorothea. 
Though,  when  it  comes  to  suffering,  she  has  her 
share,  poor  thing." 

"I  suppose  no  decent  woman  who  has  just  lost 
her  husband  is  expected  to  be  absolutely  hilarious 
over  the  event." 

"She  hasn't  just  lo-.t  him;  it's  getting  on  toward 
a  year.  And,  besides,  it  isn't  only  that.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  I  don't  believe  she  ever  loved  him  as  she 
could  love  the  man  to  whom  she  gave  her  heart. 
If  grief  was  her  only  trouble,  I  am  sure  the  poor 
thing  could  bear  it." 

"And  can't  she  bear  it  as  it  is  ?" 

"The  fact  that  she  does  bear  it  shows  that  she 
can;   but  it  must  be  hard  for  a  woman,  who  has 
Uved  as  she  has,  to  be  brought  to  want." 
92 


THE      INNER      S  H  R   T  hT  R 

"Want?    Isn't  that  a  strong  word?    One  isn't 
m  want  unless  one  is  without  food  and  shelter." 

"She  has  the  shelter  for  the  time  being;    I'm 
not  sure  that  she  always  has  the  food." 

^'  mat  ?    You  don't  know  what  you're  saying  " 

I  know  exactly  what  I'm  saying;   and  I  mean 

exactly  what  I  say.     There  have  been  days  when 

I  ve  suspected  that  she's  pinching  in  the  essentials 

of  meat  and  drink." 

"But  she  has  pupils." 

"She  has  two;  but  they  must  pay  her  very  little. 
Its  dreadful  for  people  who  have  as  much  as  we 
to  havejo  look  on  at  the  tragedy  of  others  going 

"Good  Lord!    Don't  pile  it  on." 
Striding  to  a  window,  he  stood  with  his  back  to 
her,  staring  out. 
"  I'm  not  piling  it  on,  Derek.     I  wish  I  were." 
Well,  can't  we  do  something?    If  it's  as  you 
say,  they  mustn't  be  left  like  that." 

"It's  a  very  delicate  matter.     The  mother-in- 
T  r  5?'  ""T^  °^ ^^'  °^";  !>"'  Diane  has  nothing. 
It  s  difficult  to  see  what  to  do,  e.xcept  to  find  her  a 
situation." 
"Then  find  her  one." 
"I  have;   but  you  won't  take  her." 
"In  any  case,"  he  said,  in  the  aggressive  tone 
of  a  man  putting  forward  a  weak  final  argument, 
you  couldn  t  leave  the  mother-in-law  all  alone  " 
93 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"I'd  take  her,"  Lucilla  said,  promptly.  "You 
have  no  idea  how  much  I  want  her,  in  this  bi^ 
empty  house.  It's  getting  to  be  more  tJian  I  can 
io  to  take  care  of  Aunt  Regina  all  alone." 

Minutes  went  by  in  silence;  but  when  Derek 
turned  from  the  window  and  spoke,  Lucilla  shrank 
with  constitutional  fear  from  the  responsibility  gh« 
had  assumed. 

"Go  and  ring  them  up,  and  tell  young  Mi». 
Eveieth  I'm  waiting  to  see  her  here." 

"But,  Derek,  are  you  sure — ?" 

"I'm  quite  sure.     Please  go  and  ring  them  up." 

"  But,  Derek,  you're  so  stanling.  Have  you  re- 
flected ?"  ' 

"It's  quite  decided.  Please  do  as  I  say,  and 
call  them  up." 

"  But  if  anything  were  to  go  wrong  in  the  future 
you'd  think  it  was  my — " 

"I  shall  think  nothing  of  the  kind.  Don't  say 
any  more  about  it,  but  please  go  and  tell  Diane 
I'm  waiting." 

The  use  of  this  name  being  more  convincing  to 
Lucilla  th.-jn  pledges  of  assurance,  she  sped  away 
to  do  his  bidding;  but  it  was  not  till  after  she  had 
gone  that  Derek  recognized  the  fact  that  the  word 
had  passed  his  lips. 


VII 


DURING  the  half-hour  before  the  arrival  of 

I.       .  ^     '■^'"''  ="'*^  ^'="^'  Miss  Lucilla's  tact 
.Mowed  Derek  to  have  the  library  to  himself.     He 
was  thus  enabled  to  co-ordinate  his  thoughts,  and 
«iact  the  laws  which  must  henceforth  regulate  his 
domestic  life.     It  was  easy  to  silence  the  voice 
that  for  an  mstant  accused  him  of  taking  this  step 
m  order  to  provide  Diane  Eveleth  with  a  home; 
for  Dorothea  s  need  of  a  strong  hand  over  her  wa. 
imperative.     He  had  reached  the  point  where  that 
circumstance  could   no  longer  be  ignored.    The 
avowal  that  the  child  had  passed  beyond  his  con- 
trol  would  have  had  more  bitterness   in  it,  were 
It  not  for  the  fact  that  her  naive  self-sufficlencr 
touched  his  sense  of  humor,  while  her  dainty  beauw 
wakened  his  paternal  pride. 

Nevenheless,  it  was  patent  that  Dorothea  had 
neen  too  much  her  own  mistress.  Without  ad- 
mitting that  he  had  been  wrong  in  his  method, 
hitheno  he  confessed  that  the  rime  had  come 
When  the  duenna  system  must  be  introduced,  u 
a  Mtter  not  only  of  propriety,  but  of  prudence. 

OS 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

He  assured  himself  of  his  regret  that  no  American 
lady  who  could  take  the  position  chanced  to  be  on 
the  spot,  but  allayed  his  sorrow  on  the  ground  that 
any  fairly  well-mannered,  virtuous  woman  could 
fulfil  the  functions  of  so  mechanical  a  task,  just  as 
any  decent,  able-bodied  man  is  good  enough  to  be 
a  policeman. 

It  was  somewhat  annoying  that  the  lady  in  ques- 
tion should  be  young  and  pretty;  for  it  was  a  sad 
proof  of  the  crudity,  of  human  nature  that  the  mere 
residence  of  a  free  man  and  a  free  woman  under 
the  same  roof  could  not  pass  without  comment 
among  their  friends.  For  himself  it  was  a  matter 
of  no  importance;  and  as  for  her,  a  woman  who 
has  her  living  to  earn  must  often  be  placed  in 
situations  .vhere  she  is  exposed  to  remark. 

To  anticipate  all  possibility  of  mistake,  it  would 
be  necessary  that  his  attitude  toward  Mrs.  Eveleth 
should  be  strictly  that  of  the  employer  toward  the 
employed.  He  must  ignore  the  circumstance  of 
their  earlier  acquaintance,  with  its  touch  of  some- 
thing memorable  which  neither  of  them  had  ever 
been  able  to  explain,  and  confine  himself  as  far  as 
possible,  both  in  her  interests  and  his  owai,  to  such 
relations  as  he  held  with  his  stenographers  and  his 
clerks.  What  friendliness  she  required  she  must 
receive  from  other  hands;  and,  doubtless,  she 
would  find  sufficient. 

Having  intrenched  himself  behind  his  fortifica' 
96 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 
tions  of  reserve,  he  was  able  to  maintain  just  the 
nght  shade  of  dignity,  when,  in  the  half-light  of 
the  midwinter  afternoon,  Diane  ghded  into  the  big, 
book-hned   apartment,  in  which  the  comfortable 
air  mduced  through  long  occupancy  by  people  of 
means  did  not  banish  a  certain  sombreness.     She 
entered  wich  the  subdued  manner  of  one  who  has 
been  sent  for  peremptorily,  but  who  acknowledges 
the  right  of  summons.     The  perception   of  this 
called   an   impulse  to  apologize  to  Derek's   lips; 
but  on  reflection  he  repressed  it.     It  was  best  to 
assume  that  she  wo.-'d  do  his  bidding  from  the  first 
Standing  by  the  fireplace,  with  his  arm  on  the 
mantelpiece,  he  bowed  stiffly,  without  ofl=-ering  his 
hand.     Diane  bowed  in  return,  keeping  her  own 
hands  securely  in  her  small  black  muff. 
"Won't  you  sit  down?" 

Without  changing  his  position  he  indicated  the 
large  leathern  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth, 
"•ane  sat  down  on  the  veiy  edge-erect,  silent, 
submissive.  If  he  had  feared  the  intrusion  of  the 
personal  element  i.-.to  what  must  be  strctly  a  busi- 
ness affair,  it  was  plain  that  this  pale,  pinched  lit- 
tie  woman  had  forestalled  him. 

Yes;  she  was  pale  and  pinched.  Lucilla  had 
been  right  about  that.  There  was  something  in 
l^ane  s  appearance  that  suggested  privation.  Derek 

hented  of  mankin.,  but  never  in  his  own  rank  in 
97 


«i 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

Uk.  With  her  air  of  proud  gendeness,  of  gallant 
acceptance  of  what  fate  had  apportioned  her,  she 
made  him  think  of  some  plucky  little  citadel  hold- 
ing out  against  hunger.  If  there  was  no  way  of 
ihowing  the  pity,  the  mingled  pity  and  approba- 
tion, in  his  breast,  it  was  at  least  some  consolation 
to  know  that  in  his  house  she  would  be  beyond  the 
most  terrible  and  elemental  touch  of  want. 

"I've  troubled  you  to  come  and  see  me,"  he  be- 
gan, with  an  effort  to  keep  the  note  of  embarrass- 
ment out  of  his  vpice,  "to  ask  if  you  would  be 
willing  to  accept  a  position  in  my  family." 

Diane  sat  still  and  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  detect,  beneath  her 
veil,  a  light  of  relief  in  her  face,  like  a  sudden 
gleam  of  sunshine. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  position,"  was  all  she  laid, 
*  and  if  I  could  be  of  service — " 

"  I'm  very  much  in  need  of  some  one,"  he  ex- 
plained; "though  the  duties  of  the  place  would  be 
peculiar,  and,  per.':aps,  not  pardcularly  grateful." 
"It  wou'd  be  for  me  to  do  them,  without  quea- 
tioning  as  to  whether  I  liked  them  or  not." 

"I'm  glad  you  say  that,  as  it  will  make  it  easier 
for  us  to  come  to  an  understanding.  You've  al- 
ready guessed,  perhaps,  that  I  am  looking  for  a 
lady  to  be  with  my  daughter." 

"I  thought  it  might  be  something  of  that  kind." 
The  difficult  part  of  the  interview  was  now  to 
q8 


int 
ih« 
Id- 
of 
)» 
on 
h« 

«- 
i»- 
be 

ut 
er 

»! 

i, 

i- 

•e 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

begin,  and  Pruyn  hesitated  a  minute,  considering 
how  best  to  present  his  case.     Reflection  decided 
him  m  favor  of  frankness,  for  it  was  only  by  frank- 
ness  on  his  side  that  Diane  would  be  able  to  cariy 
out  his  wishes  on  hers.     The  responsibility  imposed 
upon  him  by  his  wife's  death,  he  said,  was  one  he 
hsd  never  wished  to  shirk  by  leaving  his  child  to 
the  care  of  others.    Moreover,  he  had  had  his  own 
ideas  as  to  the  manner  in  which  she  should  be 
brought  up,  and  he  had  put  them  into  practice. 
The  results  had  been  good  in  most  respects,  and 
if  m  others  there  was  something  still  to  be  desired, 
Jt  was  not  too  late  to  make  the  necessary  changes, 
whether  in  the  way  of  supplement  or  correction. 
Indeed,  in  his  opinion,  the  psychological  moment 
for  introducing  a  new  line  of  conduct  had  only 
just  arrived. 

"It  is  often  better  not  to  force  things,"  Diane 
murmured,  vaguely,  "especially  with  the  verv 
young."  ' 

To  this  he  agreed,  though  he  laid  down  the  prin- 
aple  that  not  to  take  strong  measures  when  there 
was  need  for  them  would  be  the  part  of  weakness. 
Uiane  havmg  no  objection  to  offer  to  this  bit  of 
wisdom,  it  was  possible  for  him  to  go  on  to  explain 
^e  emergency  she  would  be  called  on  to  meet 
Briefly,  it  arose  from  his  own  error  in  allowing 
Uorothea  too  much  liberty  of  judgment.  While 
be  was  m  favor  of  a  reasonable  freedom  for  all 
99 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

young  people,  it  was  evident  that  in  this  case  the 
pendulum  had  been  suffered  to  swing  so  far  in  one 
direction  that  it  would  require  no  small  amount 
of  effort  on  his  part  and  Diane's— chiefly  on 
Diane's— to  bring  it  back.  In  the  interest  of 
Dorothea's  happiness  it  was  essential  that  the 
proper  balance  should  be  established  with  all 
possible  speed,  even  though  they  raised  some 
rebellion  on  her  part  in  doing  it. 

He  explained  Dorothea's  methods  in  creating  her 
body-guard  of  young  men,  as  far  as  he  understood 
them;  he  described  the  young  people  whose  society 
she  frequented,  and  admitted  that  he  was  puzzled 
as  to  the  precise  quality  in  them  that  shocked  his 
views;  coming  to  the  affair  with  Carii  Wappinger, 
he  spoke  of  it  a"  "a  bit  of  preposterous  nonsense, 
to  which  an  immediate  stop  must  be  put."  There 
were  minor  points  in  his  exposition;  and  at  each 
one,  as  he  made  it,  Diane  nodded  her  head  gravely, 
to  show  that  she  followed  him  with  understanding, 
and  was  in  sympathy  with  his  opinion  that  it  was 
"high  rime  that  some  step  should  be  taken." 

Encouraged  by  this  intelligent  comprehen-ion, 
Derek  went  on  to  d.r'.  the  good  offices  he  woul<" j 
expect  from  Diane.  Sne  should  come  to  his  house 
not  only  as  Dorothea's  inseparable  cor.ipanion,  but 
as  a  sou  of  warder-in-chief,  armed,  by  his  au- 
thority, with  all  the  powers  of  command.  There  was 
no  use  in  doing  things  by  halves;  and  if  Dorothea 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

needed  discipline  she  had  better  get  it  thoroughly, 
and  be  done  with  it.    It  was  not  a  thing  which  he, 
Derek,  would  want  to  see  last  forever;   but  while 
it  did  last  it  ought  to  be  effective,  and  he  would 
look  to  Diane  to  make  it  so.     As  it  was  noi  be- 
coming that  a  daughter  of  his  should  need  a  body- 
guard  of  youths,  Diane  would  undertake  the  task 
of  breaking   up   Dorothea's  circle.    Young  men 
might  still  be  permitted  "to  call,"  but  under  Diane's 
supervision,  while  Doiothea  sat  in  the  background, 
as  a  maiden  should.     Diane  would  make  it  a  point 
to  know  the  lads  personally,  so  as  to  discriminate 
between    them,   and   exclude  those  who   for  one 
reason  or  another  might  not  be  desirable  friends. 
As  for  Mr.  Carli  Wappinger,  the  door  was  to  be 
rigorously  shut  against  him.     Here  the  question 
was  not  one  of  gradual  elimination,  but  of  abrupt 
termination    to   the   acquaintanceship.     He    must 
request  Diane  to  see  to  it  that,  as  far  as  possible, 
Dorothea  neither  met  the  young  man,  nor  held 
communication  with  him,  on  any  pretext  whatever.    • 
He  laid  down  no  rule  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Wappinger, 
but  it  would  follow  as  a  natural  consequence  thar 
the  mother  should  be  dropped  with  the  son.     These 
might  seem  drastic  measures  to  Dorothea,  to  begin 
with;   but  she  was  an  eminently  reasonable  child, 
and  would  soon  come  to  recognize  their  wisdom. 
After  all,  they  were  only  the  conditions  to  which 
as  he  had  been  given  to  understand,  other  young 

1 01 


THE     INNER     SHRINE 

|tils  were  subjected,  so  that  she  would  have  nothing 
to  complain  of  in  her  lot.  The  probability  of  his 
•wn  departure  for  South  America,  with  an  absence 
lasting  till  the  spring,  would  make  it  necessary  for 
Diane  to  use  to  the  full  the  powers  with  which  he 
commissioned  her.  He  trusted  that  he  made  him- 
«eli  clear. 

For  some  minutes  after  he  ceased  speaking  Diant 
sat  looking  meditatively  at  the  fire.  When  she 
spoke  her  voice  was.Iow,  but  the  ring  of  decision  im 
'«  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  accept  the  position,  Mr. 
Pruyn." 

Derek's  start  of  astonishment  was  that  of  a  man 
who  sees  intentions  he  meant  to  be  benevolent 
thrown  back  in  his  face. 

"You  couldn't—?     But  surely— f 

"I  mean,  I  couldn't  do  that  kind  of  work." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  looking  for  it— or  some- 
thing of  the  sort." 

"Yes;  something  of  the  sort,  but  not  precisely 
that." 

"And  it's  precisely  that  that  I  wish  to  have 
done,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  betrayed  some  irrita- 
tion; "so  I  suppose  there  is  no  more  to  be  said." 

"No;  I  suppose  not.  In  any  case,"  she  added, 
rising,  "  I  must  thank  you  for  being  so  good  as  t« 
think  of  me;  and  if  I  feel  obliged  to  decline  your 
proposition,  I  must  ask  you  to  believe  th»t  my 

I02 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

Motives  are  not  petty  ones.  Now  I  will  say  good- 
aftemoon." 

Keeping  her  hands  rigidly  within  her  muff,  and 
with  a  slight,  dignified  inclination  f  the  head,  she 
turned  from  him. 

She  was  half-way  to  the  door  before  Derek  re- 
covered himself  sufficiently  to  speak. 

"May  I  ask,"  he  inquired,  "what  your  objections 
are?" 

She  turned  where  she  stood,  but  did  not  com* 
back  toward  him. 

"  I  have  only  one.  The  position  you  suggest  would 
be  intolerable  to  your  daughter  and  odious  to  me." 

"But,"  he  asked,  with  a  perplexed  contraction 
•f  the  brows,  "  isn't  it  what  companions  to  young 
ladies  are  generally  engaged  for  ?" 

"I  was  never  engaged  as  a  companion  before^ 
so  I'm  not  qualified  to  say.     I  only  know — " 

She  stopped,  as  if  weighing  her  words. 

"Yes  ?"  he  insisted;  "you  only  know — what?" 

"That  no  girl  with  spirit — and  Miss  Pruyn  is 
a  girl  with  spirit — ^would  submit  to  that  kind  of 
tyranny." 

"It  wouldn't  be  tyranny  in  this  case;  it  would 
be  authority." 

"She  would  consider  it  tyranny — especially  aftei 
the  freedom  you've  allowed  her." 

"  But  you  admit  that  it's  freedom  that  ought  to 
be  mrbed  ?" 

•*>3 


m 
i'  i; 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Quite  so;  but  aren't  there  methods  of  restric- 
doii  other  than  those  of  compulsion  ?" 

"Such  as— what?" 

"Such  as  special  circumstances  may  suggest." 

"And  in  these  particular  circumstances — ?" 

"I'm  not  prepared  to  say.  I'm  not  sufficiently 
familiar  with  them." 

"Precisely;   but  I  am." 

"You're  familiar  with  them  from  a  man's  point 
of  view,"  she  smiled;  "  but  it's  one  of  those  instances 
in  which  a  man's  point  of  view  counts  for  very  little." 

"Admitting  that,  what  would  be  your  advice  f" 

"I  have  none  to  give." 

"None?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Leaving  his  fortified  posi- 
tion by  the  mantelpiece,  he  took  a  step  or  two 
toward  her. 

"And  yet  v^hen  I  began  to  speak  you  seemed 
favorably  inclined  to  the  offer  I  was  making  you. 
You  must  have  had  ideas  on  the  subject,  then." 

"Only  vague  ones.  I  made  the  mistake  of  sup- 
posing that  yours  would  be  equally  so." 

"And  with  your  vague  ideas,  your  intention 
was—  ?" 

"To  adapt  myself  to  circumstarces;  I  couldn't 
tell  beforehand  what  they  would  lie.  I  imagined 
that  wh'it  you  wanted  for  your  daughter  was  the 
society  of  an  experienced  woman  of  the  world;  and 
I  am  that,  whatever  else  I  may  not  be." 
104 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

"You're  very  young  to  make  the  claim." 
"There  are  other  ways  of  gaining  experience 
than  by  years;  and,"  she  added,  with  the  intention 
to  divert  the  conversation  from  herself,  "tht  small 
store  I  happen  to  possess  I  was  willing  to  share 
widi  your  daughter,  in  whatever  way  she  might 
have  need  of  it." 
"  But  not  in  my  way." 

"Not  in  your  way,  perhaps,  but  for  the  further- 
ing of  your  purposes." 

"How  could  you  further  my  purposes  when  you 
wouldn't  do  what  I  wanted  ?" 
"By  getting  her  to  do  it  of  her  own  accord." 
"G)uld  you  promise  me  she  would  f" 
"I  coulun't  promise  you  anything  at  all.     I  could 
only  do  my  best,  and  see  how  she  would  respond  t :.  it." 
"She's  a  very  good  little  girl,"  Ke  hastened  to 
declare. 

"I'm  sure  of  that.  Though  I  don't  know  her 
well,  I've  seen  her  often  enough  to  understand  that 
whatever  mistakes  she  may  make,  they  are  those 
of  youth  anu  independence.  She  is  only  a  mother- 
less girl  who  has  been  allowed^who,  in  a  certain 
way,  has  been  obliged— to  look  after  herself.  I've 
noticed  that  underneath  her  self-reliant  manner 
she  s  very  much  a  child." 
'That's  true." 

"But  I  should  never  treat  her  as  a  child,  except— 
except  in  one  way." 

IDS 


THE      INNER      S  H  RIN  M 

"Which  would  be— r 

"To  give  her  plenty  of  affection." 

"She's  always  had  that." 

"Yes,  yours;  she  hasn't  had  her  mother's.  Don't 
thuik  ine  cruel  in  saying  it,  but  no  girl  can  grow  up 
nourished  only  by  her  father's  love,  and  not  mist 
something  that  the  good  God  intended  her  to 
have.  The  reason  women  are  so  essential  to  babies 
and  men  is  chiefly  because  of  their  facuhy  for  un- 
derstanding the  inarticulate.  With  all  your  daugh- 
ter has  had,  there  is  one  great  thing  that  she  hasn't 
had;  and  if  you  had  placed  me  near  her,  my  idea, 
which  I  call  vague,  would  have  been  — as  far  ai 
any  one  cculd  do  it  now-to  supply  her  with  some 
or  that. 

Derek  retreated  again  to  the  fireside,  alanned  by 
a  language  suspiciously  like  that  he  had  heard  on 
other  occasions    concerning  the  motherless  condi- 
tion of  his  child.    Was  it  going  to  turn  out  that  all 
women  were  alike  ?    There  had  been  minutes  dur- 
ing the  last  half- hour  when,  as  he  looked  into 
Uiane  s  face,  it  seemed  to  him  that  here  at  last  was 
one  as  honest  as  air  and  as  straightforward  as  light 
But  no  experienced  woman  of  the  world,  as  she 
declared  herself  to  be,  could  forget  that  this  was  a 
ludicrously  delicate   topic  with   a  widower.     She 
must  either  avoid  it  altogether,  or  expose  herself 
to  misinterpretation  in  pursuing  it.     It  took  him  a 
Jew  mmutes  to  perceive  that  Diane  had  chosen  th« 
io6 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
latter  course,  and  had  done  it  with  a  fine  disdain 
^  anything  he  might  choose  to  think.  She  was  not 
of  the  order  of  women  who  hesitate  for  petty  con- 
siderations,  or  who  stoop  to  small  manoeuvrings. 

I  m  afraid  I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  when  ht 
had  stood  some  time  without  speaking. 

"Don't  go  yet.     Sit  down." 

His  tone  was  still  one  of  command,  but  not  of 
the  same  <,uality  of  command  as  that  which  he  had 
used  on  her  entry.  He  brought  her  a  chair,  and 
she  seated  herself  again. 

"You  said  just  now,"  he  began,  resuming  his 

former  attitude,  with  his  arm  on  the  mantelpiece, 

that  you  didn't  expect  me  to  be  so  definite.    Sup- 

pose  I  had  been  indefinite;  then  what  would  you 

have  done .?"  ' 

"I  should  have  been  indefinite,  too" 

"That's  all  very  well;    but,  you  see,  I  have  to 

look  at  things  from  the  point  of  view  of  business." 
And  IS  there  never  anything  indefinite  in  busi- 

ness  r 

"Not  if  we  can  help  it." 

''And  what  happens  when  you  can't  help  it?" 
Ihen  we  have  to  look  for  some  one  to  whoa, 
discretion  we  can  trust." 

'Exactly;  and,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  it,  Miss 
f  myn  IS  at  an  age  and  in  a  position  where  she  needs 
Ihori^  »  *''™*^  ^'*  discretion  rather  than  au- 
107 


Jkn 


TH  E     I  N  N  E 


R S  H  R  I  N  E 


"Well,  suppose  we  were  agreed  about  everything 
-*e  d.scret.on  and  all-what  would  you  be^in  by 

"I  shouldn't  begin  by  doing  anything.  I  should 
to^  to  wm  your  daughter's  confidencf;  and  if  I 
couldn't  do  that  I  should  go  away  " 

wc2£'at:!;sJi;.r^'^'''^''p-^^--Hi"s 

"It  might  happen  so.  1  shouldn't  expect  it 
Good  heart,  are  generally  sensitive  to  gLd  in- 
fluences;    anc'  beneatf,  her  shell  of  manner  Miss 

l2mtiP  ^'  ""'"  ""^  "°'  '^^^  '"'"'  ' 
Again  he  was  suspicious  of  a  bid  for  favor:   but 

St^rrugi^'^''-^"''^"^''^^''--^-^- 

"I'm  glad  you  see  that,"  was  the  only  comment 
he  made.  "But."  he  added,  once  moi  taking  a 
step  or  two  toward  her.  "when  you  had  won  L 
confidence,  then  you  would  do  things  that  I  sug- 
gested, wouldn't  you  ?"  ^       -t  i  sug 

th"^  l'"'"'?r''  ^T^  '°-     ^''^  ^•'"'^  Probably  do 
*.T._  herself,  and   a  great  deal  banter  than  you 

"I  don-t  see  how  vou  can  je  sure  of  that     If 
you  don't  make  her—" 

"When  you've  watered  your  plant  and  kept  it 
n  the  sunshme  you  don't  have  to  make  it  bl^m. 
It  will  do  that  of  itself." 
io8 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"But  all   these  young  men  f— and  this  youn* 
Wappinger —  ?"  '      * 

"I  should  let  them  alone." 
"Not  young  Wappinger!" 

"Wliat  harm  is  he  doing?    I  admit  that  the 
present  situation  has  its  foolish  aspects  from  your 
pomt      view  and  mine;   but  I  can  think  of  things 
a  great  deal  worse.    At  least  you  know  there  is 
nothing  clandestine  going  on;    and  young  people 
who  have  the  virtue  of  being  open  have  the  very 
first  quality  of  all.     If  you  let  them  alone-or  leave 
them  to  sympathetic  management-you  will  prob- 
ably find'that  they  will  outgrow  the  whole  thing, 
as  diildren  outgrow  an  inordinate  love  of  sweets  " 
There  was  a  brief  pause,  during  which  he  sto<id 
looking  down  at  her,  a  smile  something  like  th,.-  of 
amusement  hovering  about  his  lips. 
^_  "So  that,  in  your  judgment,"  he  began  again, 
the  whole  thing  resolves  itself  into  a  matter  of 
discretion.     But  now-if  you'll  pardon  me  for  ask- 
ing  anything  so  blunt-how  am  I  to  know  that  you 
would  be  discreet  V 

For  an  instant  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  as  if 
begging  to  be  spared  the  reply.  , 

^"If  it's  not  a  fair  question—"  he  began. 

"T^'^^^t''■  1"^^"°">"  sfie  admitted; ""only  it's 

one  I  find  difficult  to  answer.     If  it  wasn't  important 

-urgently  important-that  I  should  obtain  work. 

1  should  prefer  not  to  answer  it  at  all.     I  must 

•  109 


THE      INNER 


SHRINE 


teU  you  that  I  haven't  always  been  discreet.    I'y, 
had  to  learn  discretion— by  bitter  lessons." 

I'm  not  asking  about  the  past,"  he  broke  in, 
hastily,    but  about  th :  future." 

"About  the  future  one  cannot  wy;  one  can  only 

"Then  suppose  we  try  it  r" 
His  own  words  took  him  by  surprise,  for  he  had 
meant  to  be  more  cautious;  but  now  that  they  were 
uttered  he  was  ready  to  stand  by  them.     Once  more 
as  It  seemed  to  him,  he  could  detect  the  lighL  of  relief 
•teal  into  her  expression,  but  she  made  no  response 

Suppose  we  try  it?"  he  said  again. 
uiy^  ^°'.  y°"  *°  decide,"  she  answered,  quietly 
My  position  places  me  entirely  at  the  disposal  of 
any  one  who  is  willing  to  employ  me." 

"So  that  this  is  better  than  nothing,"  he  said,  in 
«ome  disappointment  at  her  lack  of  enthusiasm. 
I  shouldn't  put  it  in  that  way,"  she  smiled; 
but  then  I  shouldn't  put  it  in  any  way,  until  I  saw 
Whether  or  not  I  gave  you  satisfaction.  You  must 
remember  you're  engaging  an  unuied  person;  and, 
as  1  ve  told  you,  I  have  nothing  in  the  way  of  lec- 
ommendations." 

"We  will  assume  that  you  don't  need  them." 
"It's  a  good  deal  to  assume;  but  since  you're 
?ood  enough  to  do  it,  I  can't  help  being  grateful. 
Is  there  any  particular  time  when  you  would  like 
me  to  begin  f" 


IIO 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Perhaps,"  he  suggested,  drawing  up  a  small 
chair  and  seating  himself  nearer  her,  "it  would  be 
best  to  settle  the  business  part  of  our  arrangement 
first.     You  must  tell  me  frankly  if  there  is  anything 
in  what  I  propose  that  you  don't  find  satisfactory." 
"I'm  sure   there  won't  be,"  Diane   murmured, 
family,  with  a  feeling  akin  to  shame  that  any  one 
should  be  offering  to  pay  for  such  feeble  services  as 
hers.     She  was  thankful  that  the  winter  dusk,  creep- 
ing into  the  room,  hid  tlie  surging  of  tlie  hot  color  in 
her  face,  as  Derek  talked  of  sums  of  money  and 
dates  of  payment.     She  did  her  best  to  pretend  to 
give  him  her  attention,  but  she  gathered  nothing  from 
what  he  said.     If  she  had  any  coherent  tjiought  at 
a!!,  it  was  of  the  greatness,  the  force,  the  authority, 
of  one  who  could  control  her  future,  and  dictate 
her  acts,  and  prescribe  her  duties,  with  something 
like  the  power  of  a  god.     In  times  past  she  would 
have  tried  to  weave  her  spell  around  tliis  strong 
man,  in  sheer  wantonness  of  conquest,  as  Vivian 
threw  her  enchantments  over  Merlin;  now  she  was 
conscious  only  of  a  strange  willingness  to  submit  to 
him,  to  take  his  yoke,  and   bow  down  under  it, 
serving  him  as  master. 

She  was  glad  when  he  ended,  leaving  her  free  to 
rise  and  say  his  arrangements  suited  her  exactly. 
She  had  promised  to  join  iVss  Lucilla  van  Tromp 
and  Mrs.  Eveleth  at  tea,  and  perhaps  he  would 
come  with  her. 


THE      INNER      S  H  RI  N  B 

"No,  I'll  run  away  now,"  he  said,  accompanying 

her  to  tlie  door,  "if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  make 

,  my  excuses  to  Lucilla.     But  one  word  more  1    You 

,  I  ask-d  me  when  you  had  better  begin.     I  should  say 

:  as  soon  as  you  can.    As  I  may  leave  for  Rio  de 

;  Janeiro  at  any  time,  it  would  be  well  for  things  to 

j  i  be  in  working  order  befbit  I  go." 

j^l  So  it  was  settled,  and  as  she  departed  he  opened 

!  Il  *e  door  for  her  and  held  out  his  hand.     But  once 

ill  ""pre  the   little  black  muff  came  into  play,  and 

!  '  Diane  walked  out  as  she  had  come  in,  with  no 

>^  other  salutation  than  a  dignified  inclination  of  the 

i-l  head. 

Derek  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  stood  with 
his  hand  on  the  knob.  He  took  the  gentle  rebuke 
like  a  man. 

"I'm  a  cad,"  he  said  to  himself.     "I'm  a  cad." 

Returning  to  his  former  place  on  the  hearth,  he 
remained  long,  gazing  into  the  dying  embers,  and 
rehearsing  the  points  of  the  interview  in  his  mind. 
The  gloaming  closed  around  him,  and  he  took 
pleasure  in  the  fancy  that  she  was  still  sitting  theie 
—silent,  patient,  ei.-ct,  with  that  pinched  look  of 
privation  so  gallantly  borne. 

"By  Jove!  she's  a  brave  one!"  he  murmured, 

under  his  breath.     "She's  a  brick.     She's  a  soldier. 

She's  a  lady.     She's  the  one  woman  in  the  world  to 

whom  I  could  intrust  my  child." 

Then,  as  his  head  sank  in  meditation,  he  shook 

112 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

himself  as  though   to  wake   up   from   sleep   into 
actual  day. 

"I've  been  dreaming,"  he  said— "I've  been 
dteaming.  I  must  get  away.  I  must  go  back  to 
the  office.     I  must  get  to  work." 

But  instead  of  going  he  threw  himself  into  one  of 
the  deep  arm-chairs.  Dropping  off  into  a  reverie,  he 
conjured  up  the  scene  which  had  long  been  the 
fairest  in  his  memory. 

It  was  the  summer.  It  was  the  country.  It  was 
a  garden.  In  the  long  bed  the  carnations  of  many 
colors  were  bending  their  beauty-drunken  heads, 
while  over  them  a  girl  was  stooping.  She  picked 
one  here,  one  there,  in  search  of  that  which  would 
suit  him  best.  When  she  had  found  it — deep  red, 
with  shades  in  the  inner  petals  nearly  black — she 
turned  to  offer  it.  But  when  she  looked  at  him,  he 
•aw  it  was — Diane. 


VIII 

JT   had    apparently    been    decreed    that   Derek 
Pruyn  was  not  to  go  to  South  America  that 
year.    On  more  than  one  occasion  he  had  been 
delayed  on  the  eve  of  skiling.     From  February  the 
voyage  was  postponed  to  May,  and  from  May  to 
September.     In  September  it  had  ceased  for  the 
moment  to  be  urgent,  while  remaining  a  pos.ibil- 
.ty.     It  was  the  February  of  a  year  later  before  it 
became  a  definite  necessity  no  longer  to  be  put  off. 
In  the  mean  while,  under  the  beneficent  processes 
of  time,  sunshine,  and  Diane  Eveleth's  cultivation. 
Miss  Dorothea  Pruyn  had  become  a  "bud."    The 
small,  hard,  green  thing  had  unfolded  petals  whose 
delicacy,  purity,  and  fragrance  were  a  new  con- 
tnbuaon  to  the  joy  of  living.     Society  in  general 
showed   Its   appreciation,   and   Derek   Pruyn  was 
proud. 

He  was  more  than  proud;  he  was  grateful.  The 
development  that  had  changed  Dorothea  from  a 
ioryvard  Imle  girl  into  a  charming  maiden,  and 
which  might  have  been  the  mere  consequence  of 
growth,  was  to  him  the  evident  fruit  of  Diane's 
114 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  N  B 

influoice.    The  subtle  diiFerences  whereby  his  own 
dwelling  was  transformed  from  a  handsome,  mon 
or  less  empty,  shell  into  an  abode  of  the  domestic 
amenities  sprang,  in  his  opinion,  from  a  presence 
shedding  grace.    All  the  more  strange  was  it,  there- 
fore, that  both  presence  and  influence  remained  as 
remote  from  his  own  personal  grasp  as  music  on  the 
waves  of  sound  or  odors  in  the  air.     Of  the  many 
impressions  produced  by  a  year  of  Diane's  residence 
beneath  his  roof,  none  perplexed  him  more  than  her 
detachment.     Moreover,  it  was  a  detachment  as 
difficult  to  comprehend  in  quality  as  to  define  in 
words.     There  was  in  her  attitude  nothing  of  the 
retreating  nymph  or  of  the  self-effacing  sufferer. 
She  took  her  place  equally  without  obtrusiveness  and 
without  affectation.     Such  effects  as  she  brought 
about   came  without   noise,   without   effort,   and 
without  laboriousness  of  good  intentioh.     Simple 
and  straightforward  in  all  her  ways,  the  neverthe- 
less contrived  to  throw  into  her  relations  with  him- 
self an  element  as  impersonal  as  sunshine. 

In  the  first  Jay^  of  her  coming  it  w:.s  he  who,  in 
pursuance  of  his  method  of  reserve,  had  held  aloof. 
He  had  been  frequently  absent  from  New  York, 
and,  even  when  there,  had  lived  much  at  one  or 
another  of  his  clubs.  Weeks  had  already  passed 
when  the  perception  stole  on  him  that  his  goings 
«nd  comings  meant  little  more  to  her  than  to  the 
«ees  waving  in  the  great  Park  before  his  door. 


^.liW 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

The  discovery  that  he  had  been  taking  such  pains 
to  abstract  himself  from  eyes  which  scarcely  noticed 
whether  he  was  there  or  not  brought  with  it  a  little 
bitter  raillery  at  his  own  expense.     He  was  piqued 
at  once  m  his  self-love  and  in  his  masculine  instinct 
for  domination.     It  seemed  to  be  out  of  the  natural 
order  of  things  that  his  thoughts  should  dwell  so 
much  on  a  woman  to  whom  he  was  only  a  detail  in 
the  scheme  of  her  surroundings— superior  to  the 
but  er,  and  more  animate  than  the  pictures  on  the 
wall,  but  as  little  in  her  consciousness  as  either. 
It  was  certainly  an  easy  opportunity  in  which  to 
display  that  self-restraint  which  he  had  undertaken 
to  make  his  portion;  but  when  the  heroic  nature 
finds  no  obstacles  to  overcome,  it  has  a  tendency  to 
create  them. 

Without  obtruding  himself  upon  Diane,  Derek 
began  to  dine  more  frequently  at  his  own  house. 
On  those  occasions  when  Dorothea  went  out  alone 
It  was  impossible  for  the  two  who  remained  at  home 
to  avoid  a  kind  of  conversation,  which,  with  the 
topics  incidental  to  the  management  of  a  common 
houseliold,  often  verged  upon  the  intimate.  When 
Diane  accompanied  his  daughter  to  the  opera,  he 
adopted  the  habit  of  dropping  into  the  box,  and  per- 
haps taki^i,  them,  with  some  of  Dorothea's  friends, 
to  a  restaurant  for  supper.  He  planned  the  litde 
parties  and  excursions  for  which  Dorothea's  "bud- 
ding" offered  an  excuse;  and,  while  he  recognized 
ii6 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

the  subterfuge,  he  made  his  probable  journey,  with 
the  long  absence  it  would  involve,  serve  as  a  pallia- 
tion. Since,  too,  there  was  no  danger  to  Diane, 
there  could  be  'he  less  reason  for  stinting  himself  in 
the  pleasure  of  her  presence,  so  long  as  he  was 
prepared  to  pay  for  it  aftenv  ard  in  full. 

Thus  the  first  winter  had  gone  by,  until  with  the 
shifting  of  the  environment  in  summer  a  certain 
change  entered  into  the  situation.  The  greater 
freedom  of  country  life  on  the  Hudson  made  it 
requisite  that  Diane  should  be  more  consciously 
circumspect.  In  her  detachment  Derek  noticed 
first  of  all  a  new  element  of  intention;  but  since 
it  was  the  first  sign  she  had  given  of  distinguishing 
berveen  him  and  the  dumb  creation,  it  did  not 
displease  him.  While  he  could  not  affirm  that  she 
avoided  him,  he  saw  less  of  her  than  when  in  town. 
During  those  difficult  moments  when  they  had  no 
guests  and  Dorothea  was  making  visits  airong  her 
friends,  Diane  found  pretexts  for  slipping  away  to 
New  York,  on  what  she  declared  to  be  business  of 
her  own— availing  herself  of  the  seclusion  of  the  lit- 
tle French  hostelry  that  had  first  given  her  shelter. 

It  was  at  times  such  as  these  that  Derek  began 
to  perceive  what  she  had  become  to  him.  As  long 
as  she  was  near  him  he  could  keep  his  feelings  within 
the  limitations  he  had  set  for  them ;  but  in  her  a  bsence 
he  was  restless  and  despondent  till  she  rMumed. 
The  brutality  of  life,  which  made  him  master  of  the 


THE      INNER      r  ff  j,   r  ^  fj 

b«uty  of  the  country  and  the  coolness  of  the  hills, 
while  ,t  drove  her  to  stifle  in  the  town,  stirred  hSj 
w.th  alternate  waves  of  indignation  and  con^alron 

There  was  a  torrid  afternoon  in  August  whe. 
the  s.ght  of  Let  trudging  along  the  dustfj  ghw" 
»  the  star. on.  almost  led  him  to  betray  himself  bj 
h^s  curses  upon  fate.  Dorothea  haWng  left  for 
Newpo.,  .„  ,he  morning.  Diane  was.  as  us^ual.  seek- 

weeks  the  g,r  s  v.sit  was  to  last.  Understanding  her 
des.re  not  to  be  alone  with  him  for  even  a  few  hou„ 
when  there  was  no  third  person  in  the  house.  De"ek 
had  t,te„  the  opportunity  to  motor  for  lunch  r.  a 
fnend  s  house  some  miles  away.  With  the  in-en- 
t.on  of  not  returning  till  after  she  had  gone  he  had 
ordered  a  carriage  to  be  in  readiness'o  d rive  her 
to  her  tra.n;  but  his  luncheon  was  scarcely  end^ 
when  d,e  thought  occurred  to  him  that.  b^Turll 
.ts'ta:ed"'«''"'^''^'-'^''-'-^Herbl.f 

He  had  already  half  smothered  her  in  dust  when 
he  perc.ved  that  the  little  woman  in  black,  und" 
a  black  parasol,  was  actually  Diane.     To  his  in 
d.gnant  quenes  as  to  why  she  should  be  plodding 
her  way  on  foot,  with  this  scorching  sun  overhead 
her  rephes  were  cheerful  and  uncompiabTnf  A 
^s  o    s,.all  accidents  in  the  stable-suclf  had 
can«antly  happened  at  her  own  little  chateau  io 
iiS 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

the  Oise— liaving  made  it  inadvisable  to  take  the 
horses  out,  one  of  the  men  had  conveyed  her  lug- 
gage to  the  station,  while  she  herself  preferred  to 
walk.  She  was  used  to  the  exigencies  of  country 
life,  in  both  France  and  Ireland;  and  as  for  th« 
heat,  it  was  a  detail  to  be  scorned.  Dust,  too,  wa* 
only  matter  out  of  place,  and  a  necessary  con- 
comitant of  summer.  Would  he  not  drive  on, 
without  troubling  himself  any  more  about  her  ? 

No;  decidedly  he  would  not.  She  must  get  in 
and  let  him  take  her  to  the  station.  There  he 
could  work  off  his  wrath  only  by  buying  her  ticket 
and  seeing  to  her  luggage;  while  his  charge  to  the 
negro  porter  to  look  to  her  comfort  was  of  such  a 
nature  that  during  the  whole  of  .ne  journey  she 
was  pelted  with  magazine  literature  and  tormented 
with  glasses  of  ice-water. 

That  nigiit  he  found  himself  impelled  by  his 
sense  of  honor  as  a  gentleman  to  write  a  letter  of 
apology  for  the  indignity  she  had  been  exposed  to 
while  in  his  house.  When  it  had  gone  he  considered 
it  insufficient,  and  only  the  reflection  that  he  ought 
to  have  business  in  town  next  day  kept  him  from 
following  it  up  with  a  second  note. 

Arrived  in  New  York,  where  the  city  was  burn- 
ing as  if  under  a  sun-glass,  he  found  his  chief  sub- 
ject for  consideration  to  be  the  choice  of  a  club  at 
which   to  lunch.     There,  in   tht  solitude  of  the 
119 


.1'  ■" 


THE      INNER      S  H  R   T  M  n 

deserted  smoking-room,  where  the  heat  was  tem- 
pered, the  glare  shut  out,  and  the  very  footfall  sub- 
dued, he  thought  of  the  little  hotel  in  University 
Place.     Because  human  society  had  mysterious  un- 
written laws,  the  woman  he  loved  was  forced  to 
steal  away  from  the  freshness  and  peace  of  green 
helds  and  sweeping  river,  to  take  refuge  amid  the 
noisome  ugliness   from  which,  in  spite  of  her  cour- 
agt,  her  exquisite  nature  must  shrink.     He   whose 
needs  were  sin.ple,  as  his  tastes  were  comparatively 
coarse,  could  command  the  sybaritic  luxun.  of  a 
Roman  patrician,  while  she,  who  could  not  lift  her 
hand  without  betraying  the  habits  of  inborn   re- 
finement, was  exposed  not  only  to  vulgar  contact. 
but  to  a  squalor  of  discomfort  as  odious  as  vice 
Ihe  thought  was  a  humiliation.     Even  if  he  had 
not  loved   her,   it  would  have  seemed   almost  the 
duty  of  a  man  of  honor  to  step  in  between  her  and 
the  cruel  pathos  of  her  lot. 

It  was  a  curious  reflection  tjiat  it  was  the  very 
fact  that  he  did  love  her  which  held  him  back 
Could  he  have  turned  toward  Paradise  and  said  to 
the  sweet  soul  waiting  for  him  there,  "This  woman 
has  need  of  me  but  you  alone  reign  in  n,y  heart,'' 
he  would  have  felt  more  free  to  act.  But  t]--^  time 
when  that  would  have  been  possible  had  eone  by 
Anything  he  might  do  now  would  be  Irss^  for  I-r 
need  than  his  own;  and  his  own  he  could  endure 
If  loyalty  to  his  past  demanded  it.     None  tlie  less 

120 


THE      IN 


E  R       SHRINE 


was  It  necessary  tc  find  a  wa/  in  which  to  come 
to  Diane's  immediate  rehet;  and  by  the  time  he 
had  finished  his  cigar  he  thought  he  had  discov- 
ered  it. 

"Having  been  obliged  to  run  up  to  to^vn,"  he 
explained,  when  she  had  received  him  in  the  little 
hotel  parlor,  "I've  dropped  in  to  tell  you  that  I'm 
going  away  for  a  few  weeks  into  Canada." 

"Isn't  it  ratlier  hot  weather  for  travelling .?"  she 
asked,  with  that  clear,  smiling  gaze  which  showed 
him  at  once  that  she  had  seen  through  his  pretext 
for  coming. 

"It  won't  be  hot  where  I'm  going— up  into  the 
valley  of  the  Metapedia." 

"It's  rather  a  sudden  decision,  isn't  it?" 

"N— no.  I  generally  try  to  get  a  little  sport  some 
time  during  the  year." 

"Naturally  you  know  your  own  intentions  best. 
I  only  happen  to  remember  that  you  said,  yester- 
day morning,  you  hoped  not  to  leave  Rhinefields 
till  the  middle  of  next  month." 

"Did  I  say  that  ?    I  must  have  been  dreaming  ?" 

"Very  likely  you  were.  Or  perhaps  yoj're 
dreaming  now." 

"Not  at  all;  in  fact,  I'm  particularly  wide  awake. 
I  see  things  so  clearly  that  I've  looked  in  to  tell  you 
some  of  them.  You  must  get  out  of  this  stifling 
hole  and  go  back  to  Rhinefields  at  once." 

"I  don't  like  that  way  of  speaking  of  a  place  I've 

121 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
become  attached  to.  It  isn't  a  stifling  hole;  it's 
a  clean  httle  ,nn.  where  the  service  is  le  v  r;  law 
of  kindness.  The  an  may  be  of  a  periodToi: 
what  earher  than  the  primitive."  she  laughed.  look- 
-ng  round  at  the  highly  colored  chromos  of  lake  and 
mountam  scenery  hanging  on  the  walls,  "and  .Ee 
furn.ture  may  not  be  strictly  in  the  stv le  of  Louil 
Qumze.  but  the  host  and  hostess  treat  me  a,  a 
daughter,  and  every  garfon  is  my  slave." 

K'sLTpTare^r;:^''"'''^^'^"'^"*^-- 

emodon  i„  T^    *'''"    ^'    ^'^'^'    ^'^    -^den 
emotion  in  his  voice. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  say  it."  she  insisted,  "first 
of  all   because  it's  true;    and  then  becau  e  Jol 

;;You  know  that  I'm  not  at  ease  about  you." 

my   o^wLr      "'^  ^  •""''  ^'  discontented  with 
my  lot   when-,n  a  certam  sense-I'm  not  at  all 

livin.  t  r    •P"''"'^  *^'  ^  P«f"  --''-g  for  a 
hving  to  having  money  of  my  own;   but  I'vf  found 

I  ve  found  that  life  grows  richer  as  it  gc^s  on 
m  whatever  way  one  has  to  live  it.     It's  as  i?  Z 

~s  that  fed   it  became   more  nume'ufS 
farther  one  descended  from  the  height." 

122 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 
"I'm  glad  you're  able  to  say  that—" 
"I  can  say  it  very  sincerely;    and  I  lay  stress 
upon  u.  because  I  know  you're  kind  enouj,  to  be 
worned   about   me.     I   wish    I  could    make   you 
understand  how  little  reason  there  is  for  it,  thoS 
you  mustn't  think  ti,at  I'm  not  touched  by  i,  S 
that  I  mistake  its  motive.     I've  come  to  see  diat 
jvhat  I've   often   heard,  and   used  scarcely  to  t 
heve,  IS  qu.te  true,  that  American  men  have  an 
attitude  toward  women  entirely  different  from  that 
of  our  men.     Our  men  probably  think  more  abou 
women  than  any  other  men  in  the  world;  but  they 
thmk  of  them  as  objects  of  prey-with  joys  and 
sorrows  not  to  be  taken  seriously.     You    on  £ 
contraty,  are  willing  to  put  yourseff  to  gre;t  incon- 
vemence  for  me   merely  because  I  ..'a  woZ" 

himl^Jtrslt    ™^°'''"'"°"^'=P^™"-'^ 

du,7  wr"*"''  ^t'^^  """'^"^  ^'  '^'^^y  ^-^^e  gold- 
dust.    When  we  have  their  general  trend  we  have 

vn,        .-,    r  ^  '''^"'  y°"  *°  '^'  '^^'  I  understand 

you,  while  I  must  ask  you  not  to  be  hurt  if  I  still 

persist  in  not  availing  myself  of  your  courtesy      I 

wish  you  wouldn't  question  me  any  more  about  it. 

because  there  are  situations  in  which  one  cheapen 

hmgs  by  the  very  effort  to  put  them  into  worTs 

feen"''  '   ''°"'"'  >'°"'''   comprehend   my 

"Let  us  assume  that  I  do,  as  it  is.    I  have  stiD 

"3 


THE      I  N  N  ^  R      S  H  R  I  N  B 

another  suggestion  to  make.  Admitting  that  I  stay 
at  Rhinefields,  why  can't  you  ask  your  mother-in- 
.»w  to  come  and  make  you  a  couple  of  weeks'  visit 
there  ?" 

For  a  moment  Diane  forgot  the  restraint  she 
mide  it  a  habit  to  impose  upon  herseif  in  the  new 
conditions  of  her  life,  and  slipped  back  into  the 
spontaneous  manner  of  the  past. 

"How  tiresome  you  are!  I  never  knew  any  one 
but  a  child  twist  himselFin  so  many  directions  to  get 
his  own  way." 

"You  see,  I'm  accustomed  to  having  my  own  way. 
You  ought  not  to  think  of  resisting  me." 

"I'm  not  resisting  you;  I'm  only  eluding  your 
grasp.  There's  one  great  obstacle  to  what  you've 
just  been  good  enough  to  propose:  my  mother-in- 
law  couldn't  come.  Miss  Lucilla  van  Tromp 
couldn't  spare  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she — Miss 
Lucilla- -asked  me  to  go  to  Newport  and  stay  with 
her  all  the  time  Dorothea  is  with  the  Prouds;  but 
I  declined  the  invitation.  You  see  now  that  I 
don't  l?.ck  cool  and  comfortable  quarters  because 
I  couldn't  get  them." 

"I  see,"  he  nodded.  "You  evidently  prefer— 
this." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  prefer:  I  prefer  a  breathing- 
space  in  which  to  commune  with  my  own  soul." 

"You  could  commune  with  your  own  soul  at 
Rhinefields." 

ia4 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"No,  I  couldn't.     It's  an  exercise  that  requires 
not  only  solitude  and  seclusion,  but  a  certain  with- 
drawal from  the  world.     If  I  were  in  France,  I 
should  go  and  spend  a  fortnight  in  my  old  convent 
at  Auteu.1;  l.ut  in  this  country  the  nearest  approach 
1  can  make  to  that  is  to  be  here  where  I  am.     After 
all  that  has  happened  in  the  last  year  and  more   I 
am  trying  to  find  myself  again,  so  to  sneak-I'm 
uying  to  re-establish  my  identity  with  'the  Diane 
de  la  Ferronaise,  who  seems  to  me  to  have  faded 
back  into  the  distant  twilight  of  time.     Won't  you 
•et  ine  do  it  in  my  own  way,  and  ask  me  no  more 
questions  ?     Yes;  I  see  by  your  face  that  you  will- 
and  we  can  be  friends  again.     Now,"  she  added, 
briskly,  springing  up  and  touching  a  bell,  "you're 
going  to  have  some  of  my  iced  coffee.     I've  taught 
them  to  make  it,  just  as  I  used  to  have  it  at  the 
Mauconduit-that  was  our  little  place  near  Com- 
piegne— and  I  know  you'll  find  it  refreshing." 

It  was  half  an  hour  later,  while  he  was  taking 
leave  of  her,  that  a  thought  occurred  to  him  which 
promised  to  be  fruitful  of  new  resou  ,es. 
_  "Veiy  well,"  he  declared,  as  they  were  parting, 
_  If  you  persist  m  staying  here,  I,  too,  shall  persist 
in  looking  in  whenever  I  com^j  to  town-which  will 
have  to  be  pretty  often  just  now— to  see  that  you're 
not  down  with  some  sort  oi  fever." 

"But,"  she  laughed,  "I  thought  you  were  going 
away— to  Canada  ?"  ^      * 

i2S 


THE      INNER      i>  H  R  I  N  E 

"I'm  not  obliged  to;  and  you've  rather  succeeded 
in  dissuading  me." 

"Then  let  me  succeed  in  dissuading  you  from 
everything.     Don't  come  here  again — please  don't." 

"I  certainly  shall." 

"I'm  generally  out." 

"In  that  case  I  shall  stay  till  you  come  in." 

"Of  course  I  can't  keep  you  from  doing  that.  1 
will  only  say  that  the  American  man  I've  had  in 
mind  for  the  past  few  months — wouldn't." 

The  fact  that  he  did  not  go  back  to  University 
Place,  either  on  this  or  any  subsequent  occasion 
when  she  thought  it  well  to  withdraw  there,  em- 
phasized his  helplessness  to  aid  her.  By  the  time 
autumn  returned,  and  the  household  was  once  more 
settled  in  town,  he  had  grown  aware  that  between 
Diane  and  himself  there  was  an  impalpable  wall  of 
separation,  which  he  could  no  more  pass  than  he 
could  transcend  the  veil  between  material  existence 
and  the  Unseen  World.  He  began  to  perceive  that 
what  he  had  called  detachment  of  manner,  more  or 
less  purposely  maintained,  was  in  reality  an  element 
in  the  situation  which  from  the  beginning  had 
precluded  friendship.  Diane  and  he  could  not  be 
friends  in  any  of  the  ordinary  senses  of  the  word. 
-As  employer  and  employed  their  necessary  dealings 
might  be  friendly;  but  to  anything  more  personal, 
under  the  present  arrangement,  there  was  attached 
(26 


I 

j  THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  Nj. 

I  die  impossible  condition  of  stepping  off  from  term 

i  nrma  into  space. 

I  The  obvious  method  of  putting  their  mutual  re- 

I  lauonship  on  a  basis  richer  in  future  potentialitiei 

i  Derek  still  felt  himself  unable  to  adopt  of  his  own 

I  initiative  act.    The  vow  which  bound  him  to  his 

dead  wife  was  one  from  which  circumstances— and 
i  not  merely  his  own  fiat— must  absolve  him;  but  as 

winter  advanced  it  seemed  to  him  that  life  had 
begun  to  speak  on  the  subject  with  a  voice  of  im- 
perative command. 

It  was  the  middle  of  January,  when  a  small, 
accidental  happening  drew  all  his  growing  but  still 
debatable  intentions  into  one  sharp  point  of  reso- 
lution.    It  was  such  an  afternoon  as  comes  rarely, 
even  m  the  exliilarating  winter  of  New  York— an 
afternoon  v.-hcn  the  unfathomable  blue  of  tlie  sky 
overhead  runs  through  all  the  gamut  of  tones  from 
lavender  to  indigo;  when  the   air  has   the   living 
keenness  of  that  which  the  Spirit  first  breathed  into 
the  nostrils  of  man;  when  the  rapture  of  the  heart 
is  that  of  neither  passion,  wine,  nor  ner^■ous  excite- 
ment, but  comes  nearer  tlie  exaltation  of  deathless 
youth  in  a  deathless  world  than  anything  else  in  a 
temporary  earth.     It  was  a  day  on  which  even  the 
jaded  heart  is  in  the  mood  to  begin  all  over  again 
in  renewed  pursuit  of  the  happiness  which  up  to 
now  has  been  elusive.    To  Derek,  whose  heart  was 
by  no  means  jaded,  it  was  a  day  on  which  the  in- 

127 


THE      INNER      SERINE 

stinctive  hope  of  youth,  which  he  supposed  he  had 
outlived,  proved  itself  of  one  essence  witli  the  con- 
tcious  passion  of  maturity. 

When,  as  he  walked  homeward  along  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, he  overtook  Diane,  also  making  her  way  home- 
ward, the  happy  occurrence  seemed  but  part  of 
the  general  radiance  permeating  life.  The  chance 
meeting  on  tlie  neutral  ground  of  out-of-doors  took 
Diane  by  surprise;  and  before  she  had  time  to  put 
up  her  guards  of  reserve  she  had  betrayed  her 
youth  in  a  shy  heightening  of  color.  Under  the 
protection  of  the  cheerful,  slowly  moving  crowd 
she  felt  at  liberty  to  drop  for  a  minute  the  subdued 
air  of  his  daughter's  paid  companion,  and  in  her 
replies  to  what  he  said  she  spoke  \\  ith  some  of  her 
old  gayety  of  verve.  Tt  was  an  unfortunate  mo.Tient 
in  which  to  yield  to  this  temptation,  for  it  was, 
perhaps,  the  only  occasion  since  her  coming  to 
New  York  on  which  she  was  closely  observed. 

Engrossed  as  they  were,  the  one  with  the  other, 
they  had  insensibly  relaxed  their  pace,  becoming 
mere  strollers  on  the  outside  edge  of  the  throng. 
The  sense  of  being  watched  came  to  both  of  them 
at  once,  and,  looking  up  at  the  same  moment,  thejr 
saw,  approaching  at  a  snail's  pace,  an  open  victoria, 
in  which  were  two  ladies,  to  whom  they  viere  objects 
of  plainly  expressed  interest.  The  elder  was  an 
insignificant  little  woman,  who  looked  as  though  she 
were  being  taken  out  by  her  costly  furs,  while  the 
128 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
younger  was  a  girl  of  some  two  or  three  and 
twenty,  of  a  type  of  Leauty  that  would  have  been 
too  imperious  had  if  not  been  toned  down  by  that 
air  which  to  th,  .inmtelligent  means  boredom, 
though  the  wise  ki-ow  it  to  spring  from  something 
gone  amiss  in  life.  Both  ladies  kept  their  eyes 
hxed  so  exclusively  on  Diane  that  they  had  almost 
passed  before  remembering  to  salute  Deiek  with 
a  nod. 

"I've  seen  those  ladies  somewhere."  Diane  ob- 
served, when  they  had  gone  by. 

"I  dare  say.  They've  probably  seen  you,  too. 
The  elder  is  Mrs.  Bayford,  sister  of  Mr.  Grimston, 
my  uncle's  partner  in  Paris.  The  girl  is  Marion 
Linmston,  his  daughter." 

"  I  remember  perfectly  now.  They  used  to  come 
Vind"  "^  "*'*"'  '•"•^-''"''-anything  of  that 

Pruyn  laughed. 

"Anything,  you  mean,  that  was  open  to  all 
comers.     Mrs.  Grimston  would  be  flattered." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  speak  slightingly."  she  hastened 
to  say.  There  were  plenty  of  nice  people  in  Paris 
whom  I  didn't  know."  | 

"And  plenty,  I  imagine,  who  thought  you  ought 
to  have  known  them.  Mrs.  Grimston.  and  Mrs 
Bayford,  too.  would  have  been  among  that  n«un. 
ber. 

"Well,  you  see  I  do  know  them— by  sight      I 

I2Q 


I! 

lii! 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

recall  Miss  Grimston  especially.    She's  so  band- 
some." 

"I  shall  tell  her  that  to-night." 

"To-night?" 

"Yes;  it's  with  them  that  Dorothea  and  I  are 
dming.  The  name  conveying  nothing  to  you,  you 
probably  didn't  remember  it.  The  fact  is  that,  ai 
Mrs.  Bayford  is  the  sister  of  my  uncle's  partner— 
my  partner,  too— I  make  it  a  point  to  be  veiy  civil 
to  her  twice  a  year-  once  when  I  dine  with  her,  and 
once  wlien  she  dines  with  me.  The  annual  festivals 
have  been  delayid  this  season  because  she  has  only 
just  returned  Kor<  a  long  visit  to  Japan  and  India, 
with  Marion  in  her  wake." 

There  had  been  so  much  to  say  which,  in  the 
glamour  of  that  glorious  afternoon,  was  more  im- 
portant that  no  further  time  was  spent  on  the  topic. 
Derek  forgot  the  meeting  till  Mrs.  Bayford  recalled 
It  to  him  as  he  sat  beside  her  in  the  evening.  She 
was  one  of  those  small,  ill-shapen  women  whose 
infirmities  are  thrown  into  more  conspicuous  relief 
by  dress  and  jewels  and  dhoUetage.  Seated  at  the 
head  of  her  table,  she  produced  the  impression  of  a 
Goddess  of  Discord  at  a  feast  of  well-meaning,  hap- 
less mortals. 

"I  want  a  word  with  you,"  she  said,  parentheti- 
cally, to  Derek,  on  her  left,  before  turning  her  atten- 
tion to  the  more  important  neijjhbor  on  her  rivht. 
"3° 


^  H  E     INNER      S  FT  P  r  f^ 

"One  is  .cant  measure."  he  laughed,  in  reply, 

but  I  must  be  grateful  even  for  that  " 

It  was  the  middle  of  dinner  before  she  took 

notice  of  h>m  agam,  but  when  she  did  she  plunged 

mto  her  subject  boldly.  j"""gea 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  think  I  knew  who  you 

were  walkmg  with  tnis  afternoon  ?" 

"Yes    I  did,  because  the  lady  recognized  you. 
She  sa,d  you  and  Mrs.  Grimston  were  among^the 
nice  people  m  Paris  whom  she  hadn't  met-but 
Whom  she  knew  very  well  by  sight." 
If  Derek  thought  this  reply  calculated  to  appease 
..n^^L    "^'  ^^  ^''<'°^"^d  his  mistake. 
U>d  she  have  the  indecency  to  say  she  hadn't 
met  me  f 

tJ'/,?'"''  '^/■'^f'  ''"'  '^^  P'°^^^^y  '^■dn't  know 
that  the  word  mdecency  could  apply  to  anything 
connected  with  you."  /"""g 

"Why,  I  was  introduced  to  her  four  times  in  one 
season! 

''I  suppose  she  hasn't  as  good  a  memoo'  as  yours." 
Oh,  as  for  that,  it  wasn't  a  matter  of  memory 
Nobody  was  permitted  to  forget  her-she  was  quite 
notorious.  ^ 

"I've  always  heard  that  in  Paris  the  mere  posses- 
sion of  beauty  is  enough  to  keep  any  one  in  the 
public  eye. 

"It  wasn't   beauty   alone-if  she  has   beauty; 
though  for  my  part-I  can't  see  it." 
»3i 


r 


T^H  E      INNER      SHRINE 

"It  IX  of  rather  an  elusive  quality." 

"It  must  be.  But  if  it  exists  at  all,  I  can  tell  you 
that  It's  of  a  dangerous  quality." 

"  Hasn't  that  always  been  the  peculiarity  of  beauty 
ever  since  the  days  of  Helen  of  Troy  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  cant  say.  I've  alwrays  tried  to  steer 
dear  of  that  sort  of  thing—" 

"That  must  be  an  excellent  plan;  only  it  deprives 
one  of  the  power  of  speaking  as  an  authority, 
doesn  t  it?  ' 

"I  don't  pretend  to  speak  as  an  authority.  If 
I  say  anything  at  all,  it's  what  eveiybody  knows." 

ITl"^."'  ^''^'V^^^y  '"'ows  is  generally— scandal." 
This  was  certainly  scandal;  but  it  wasn't  the 
fact  that  everybody  knew  it  that  made  it  so." 

"Then  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  wish  to  repeat  it." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  sure  of  anything 
of  the  kind.     I  consider  it  my  duty  to  repeat  it." 

"Then  you  won't  be  surprised  if  I  consider  it 
mine  to  contradict  it." 

"Certainly  not.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  at 
anythmg  you  could  do,  Derek,  after  what  I've  heard 
since  I  came  home." 

"I  won't  ask  you  what  that  is—" 

"No;  your  own  conscience  must  tell  you.  No 
one  can  go  on  as  you've  been  doing,  and  not  know 
he  must  be  talked  about." 

"I've   always   understood   that  that  was   more 
flattering  than  to  be  ignored." 
«3a 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"It  depends.     There's  such  a  thing  as  receiving 
that  sort  of  flatter)-  first,  only  to  be  ignored  in  the 
•equel.     I  speak  as  your  friend,  Derek    -" 
,     "I  thoroughly  understand  tliat;  but  m.;y  I  ask 
u  It  s  in  the  way  of  warning  or  of  threat  =" 

"It's  in  the  way  of  both.     You  must  see  that 
whatever  risks  I  may  be  prepared  to  run  n>ys  If. 
her  to^  as  I  have  Marion  with  n.e  I  can't  expose 
"To  what.?" 

Not^vith.standing  his  efforts  to  keep  the  conversa- 
tion to  a  tone  of  banter,  acrimonious  though  it  had 
to  be,  Derek  was  unable  to  pronounce  the  two  brief 
sy  lables  without  betraying  some  degree  of  anrer 
Glancing  up  at  him  as  she  shrank  under  J,er  weight 
of  jewels.  Mrs.  Dayford  found  him  very  big  and 
menacing;  but  she  was  a  brave  woman,  and  if  she 
shnvelled,  ,t  was  only  as  a  cat  shrivels  before  sprine- 
•ng  at  a  mastiff.  ^ 

"I  can't  expose  her  to  the  chance  of  meeting—" 
l>he  paused,  not  from  hesitation,  b-  -;•],  the 
rhetoncal  intention  of  making  the  end  of  her  phrase 
more  telling.  ' 

"My  future  wife,"  he  whispered,  before  she  had 
time  to  go  on.     "It's  only  fair  to  tell  you  that." 

Good  heavens!     You're  not  going  to  marrv  tlie 
creature!"  ' 

Mrs.   Bayford  brought  out  the  words  with  the 
dramatic  action  and  intensity  they  deserved.     In 
133 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
the  hum  of  talk  around  and  across  the  table  it  was 
doubtful  whether  or  not  they  were  heard,  and  yet 
more  tlian  one  of  the  guests  glanced  up  with  a  look 
of  interrogation.  Dorothea  caught  her  father's 
eyes  in  a  gaze  which  he  had  some  difficulty  in  retum- 
mg  with  the  proper  amount  of  steadiness;  but  Mrs 
Bernngton  Jones  came  to  the  rescue  of  the  com- 
pany by  asking  Mrs.  Bayford  to  tell  the  amusing 
story  of  how  her  bath  had  been  managed  in  Japan 

5>o  the  inciaent  passed  by,  leaving  a  sense  of  mys- 
tery in  the  air;  though  fot  Derek,  all  sense  of  an- 
noyance disappeared  in  die  knowledge  that  he  was 
Uiane  s  champion. 

He  was  thinking  over  the  incident  in  the  luxurious 
semi-darkness  of  the  electric  brougham  as  they  were 
going  homeward,  when  the  clear  voice  of  Dorothea 
broke  in  on  his  meditation. 
"Are  you  going  to  be  married,  father  ?" 
The  question  could  not  be  a  surprise  to  him  after 
the  occurrence  at  the  table,  but  he  was  not  prepared 
to  give  an  affirmative  answer  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment.  ^ 

'"WTiat  makes  you  ask .?"  he  inquired,  after  a 
second  s  reflection. 
"I  heard  what  Mrs.  Bayford  said." 
I' And  how  should  you  feel  if  I  were  I" 
"It  would  depend." 
"On  what !" 

'34 


THE     INNER      S  H  li   r  m  , 
I'S"  ^''^^f  «•  or  not  it  was  any  one  I  liked." 

you^d'iL  r    ^'  '  "  "^"^  --^  °-  -»>- 

"And  if  it  was  Diane  ?" 
"I  should  be  very  glad." 
"Why?" 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his  and  snuggled 
up  to  him.  ss'*;" 

"Oh,  for  a  lot  of  reasons.  First,  because  I've 
always  supposed  you'd  be  getting  married  one  day; 
and  I  ve  been  ternbly  afraid  you'd  pick  out  some  one 
I  couldn't  get  along  with." 

thZ  w"'"'  ^'°""  ^"^  ^^'"P'°'" '°  i"-fy 

•*N-no;  but  you  never  can  tell-with  a  man." 
Can  you  be  any  surer  with  a  woman  ?" 
No;  and  that's  one  of  my  other  reasons.     I'm 
not  very  sure  about  myself." 

"You  don't  mean  that  it's  to  be  young  Wap-  f" 
he  began,  uneasily.  ^     ' 

"I  suppose  it  will  have  to  be  he^r  some  one 
else.    They  keep  at  me." 

to  hoid'^o^""  •'^"''  ^'"^ ''°"  '°"^  ^°"  ""'y ''« ^"' 

^    "I'm  holding  out  as  well  as  I  can,"  she  laughed, 

«  w  „""  ',  ^°  °"  ^°'*=^"-    And  then-if  I  d<^» 
Well — ^what  ?" 

'35 


'  J    : 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"You'd  be  left  all  alone,  and,  of  course,  I  should 
be  worned  about  that— unless  you— you— " 

"Unless  I  married  some  one." 

"No;   not  some  one;   no  one— but  Diane." 

They  were  now  at  their  own  door,  but  before 
she  sprang  out  she  drew  down  his  face  to  hers  and 
kissed  him. 


IX 

DURING  the  succeeding  week  Derek  Pruyn, 
having  practically  announced  an  engai^ement 
which  did  not  exist,  found  himself  in  a  somewhat 
ludicrous  situation.     Too  proud  to  extort  a  promise 
of  secrecy  from  Mrs.  Bayford,  he  knew  the  value 
of  his  indiscretion— if  indiscretion  it  were— to  any 
purveyor  of  tea-table  gossip;  and  while  Diane  and 
he  remained  in  the  same  relative  positions  he  was 
sure  It  was  being  bruited  about,  with  his  own  au- 
thority, that  they  were  to  become  man  and  wife. 
It  did  not  dimmish  the  absurdity  of  the  situation 
Uiat  he  was  debarred  from  proposing  and  settling 
the  affair  at  once  by  the  grotesque  fact  that  he 
actually  had  not  time. 

There  was  certainly  little  opportunity  for  love- 
making  in  those  hurried  days  of  preparing  for  his 
long  absence  in  South  America.  He  was  often 
obliged  to  leave  home  by  eight  in  the  morning, 
rarely  returning  except  to  go  wearily  to  bed. 
Though  nothing  had  been  said  to  him,  he  had  more 
than  one  reason  for  suspecting  that  Mrs.  Bayford 
was  at  work;  and,  at  the  odd  minutes  when  he  saw 
«37 


THE  INNER  SHRINE 
Diane,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  her  clearness  of  look 
was  extinguished  by  an  expression  of  perplexity 

He  would  have  reproached  himself  more  keenly 
for  his  lack  of  energy  in  overcoming  obstacles  had 
It  not  been  for  the  fact  that,  owing  to  their  peculiar 
position  as  members  of  one  household,  and  that 
household  his,  he  was  planning  to  ask  Diane  to 
become  his  wife  on  that  occasion  when  he  would 
also  be  bidding  her  adieu.     She  would   thus  be 
spared  the  difficulties  of  a.  tiying  situation,  while 
she  wo  •.  1  have  the  season  of  his  absence  in  which 
to  adju.c  her  mind  to  the  revolution  in  her  life 
He  resolved  to  adhere  to  this  intention,  the  more 
especially  as  a  small  family  dinner  at  Gramercy 
Fark,   from  which   he  was   to  go  directly   to  his 
steamer,  would  give  him  the  exact   combination  of 
circumstances  he  desired. 

When,  after  dinner,  Miss  Lucilla's  engineering 
of  the  company  allowed  him  to  find  himself  alone 
with  Diane  m  the  library,  he  mude  her  sit  down 
by  the  fireside,  while  he  stood,  his  arm  resting  on 
the  mantelpiece,  as  on  the  afternoon  of  their  first 
senous  interview,  over  a  year  b  fore.  As  on  that 
other  occasion,  so,  too,  on  this,  she  sat  erect,  silent, 
expectant,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  What  was' 
coming  she  did  not  know;  but  she  felt  once  more 
his  commanding  dominance,  with  its  power  to 
ordam,  prescribe,  and  regulate  the  conditions  of 
her  life. 

'38 


THE      INNER      S  HRJJ^ 

talk'^oim^^  ""^'^  ^°"  ""■"'  "'---  «-  '-« 
"I  often  think  of  it,"  Diane  said,  faintly,  t^ing 
to  assume  that  they  were  entering  on  an  ordinarj 
conversation.     "As  you  didn't  agree  with  me-" 

ri<,J  '"°^'  u  "^'x'  ''"'''''>'•  "I  '''  yo"  ^ei* 
right,  in  e^eiythmg.     I  want  to  thank  you  for  what 

you  ve  done  for  Dorothea-and  for  me.  I  didn\ 
dream  a  year  ago,  that  the  change  in  both  of  u. 
could  be  so  great." 

■'Dorothea  was  a  sweet  little  girl,  to  begin  with-" 
Ves;  but  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  that  now. 
ishe  will  express  her  own  sense  of  gratitude:  but 
in  the  mean  while  I  want  to  tell  you  mine.  You 
will  understand  something  of  its  extent  when  I  say 
tftat  1  ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 

Diane  neither  spoke  nor  looked  at  hin^     The 
only  sign  she  gave  of  having  heard  him  was  a  slight 
bowing  of  the  head,  as  of  one  who  accepts  a  decrL. 
Ihe  first  few  instants'  stillness  had  the  ineffable 
quahty  which  m.ght  spring  from  the  abolition  of 
time  when  bliss  becomes  eternity.     There  was  a 
space  not  to  be  reckoned  by  any  terrestrial  count- 
mg.  during  which  each  heart  was  caught  up  in*, 
wonderful  spheres  of  emotion -on  his  tide  the  rt 
lief  of  having  spoken,  on  hers  the  joy  of  having 
heard;    and  though  it  passed  swiftlj  it  was  lo^f 
enough  to  give  to  both  the  vision  of  a  new  heav^ 
and  a  new  earth.    It  was  a  vision  that  never  f^<M 
'39 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

..gain  from  the  inward  sight  of  either,  though  the 
mists  of  mortal  error  began  creeping  over  it  at 
once. 

"If  I  take  you  by  surprise—"  he  began,  as  he 
felt  the  clouds  of  reality  closing  round  him. 

"No,"  she  broke  in,  still  without  looking  up  at 
him;   "I  heard  you  intended  to  ask  me." 

Though  he  made  a  little  uneasy  movement,  he 
knew  that  this  was  precisely  what  she  might  have 
been  expected  to  say. 

"I  thought  you  had  possibly  heard   that,"  he 
said,  in  her  own  tone  of  quiet  frankness,  "and  I 
want  to  explain  to  you  that  what  happened  was  an 
accident." 
"So  I  imagined." 

"If  I  spoke  of  you  as  my  future  wife,  I  must 
ask  you  to  believe  that  it  was  in  the  way  of  neither 
ill-timed  jest  nor  foolish  boast." 

"You  needn't  assure  me  of  that,  because  I  could 
never  have  thought  so.  If  I  want  assurance  at  all 
it's  on  other  points." 
"If  I  can  explain  them — " 
"I  can  almost  explain  them  myself  What  I 
require  is  rather  in  the  way  of  corroboration. 
Wasn't  it  much  as  the  knight  of  old  threw  the 
mantle  of  his  protection  over  the  shoulders  of  a 
distressed  damsel  ?" 

"I  know  what  you  mean;  but  I  don't  admit  the 
justice  of  the  simile." 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  N  B 

"But  if  you  did  admit  it,  wouldn't  it  be  some- 
thing like  wjiat  actually  occurred  ?" 

"You're  putting  questions  to  me,"  he  said,  sm^^ 
mg  down  at  her;  "but  you  haven't  answered  mine." 
"I  must  beg  leave  to  point  out,"  she  smiled,  in 
return,  "that  you  haven't  asked  me  one.  You've 
only^ stated  a  fact-or  what  I  presume  to  be  a  fact. 
But  before  we  can  discuss  it  I  ought  to  be  possessed 
of  certam  information;  and  you've  pu  me  in  a 
position  where  I  have  a  right  to  demand  it." 

After  brief  reflection  Derek  admitted  that.  A« 
nearly  as  he  could  recall  the  incident  at  Mrs.  Bay- 
ford's  dinner-party,  he  recounted  it. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  in  summing  up,  "that, 
as  a  snobbish  person,  she  could  hardly  be  expected' 
to  forgive  you  for  forgetting  her,  when  she  had  been 
introduced  to  you  four  times  in  a  season.  She  not 
unnaturally  fancied  you  forgot  her  on  purpose,  so 
to  speak—" 
"I  suppose  I  did,"  she  murmured,  penitently 

..^rr^^*^-"    ^^    ^^^^^'    ^»*    *"dden    curiosity. 
"Would  you—"  ' 

"I  wouldn't  now.  I  used  to  then.  Everybody 
did  It,  when  people  were  introduced  to  us  whom 
we  didn't  want  to  know.  I've  done  it  when  it 
wasn't  necessary  even  from  that  point  of  view- 
out  of  a  kind  of  sport,  a  kind  of  wantonness.  I'w 
really  forgotten  about  Mrs.  Bayford  now— eveiy- 
thing  except  her  face— but  I  dare  say  I  remembered 
*•  141 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

perfectly  well,  at  the  time.     It  would  have  been 
nothing  unusual  if  I  had." 

"In  that  case,"  he  said,  slowly,  "you  canV  be 
lurprised — " 

"I'm  not,"  she  hastened  to  say.     "If  Mrs.  Bay- 
ford  retaliates,  now  that  she  has  the  power,  she's 
within  her  right— a  right  which  scarcely  any  wom- 
an would  forego.     It  was  perfectly  natural  for  Mrs. 
Bayford  to  speak  ill  of  me;    and  it  was  equally 
natural  for  you  to  spring  to  my  defence.    You'd 
have  sprung  to  the  defence  of  any  one—" 
"No,  no,"  he  interjected,  hurriedly. 
"Of  any  one  whom  you— respected,  as  I  hope 
you  respect  me.    You've  offered  me,"  she  went  on, 
her  eyes  filling  with  sudden  tears— "you've  offered 
me  the  utmost  protection  a  man  can  give  a  woman. 
To  tell  you  how  deeply  I'm  touched,  how  sincerely 
I'm  grateful,  is  beyond  my  power;   but  you  must 
see  that  I  can't  avail  myself  of  your  kindness.  Your 
very  willingness  to  repeat  at  leisure  what  you  said 
in  haste  makesit  the  more  necessary  that  I  shouldn't 
teke  advantage  of  your  chivalry." 

"Would  that  be  vour  only  reason  for  hesitating 
to  become  my  wife  ;" 

The  deep,  vibrant  note  that  came  into  his  voice 
•ent  a  tremor  through  her  frame,  and  she  looked 
about  her  for  support.  He  himself  offered  it  by 
taking  both  her  hands  in  his.  She  allowed  him 
»o  hold  them  for  a  second  before  withdrawing  be- 
14a 


THE     I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

hind  die  intrenched  position  afforded  by  the  huoe 

chair  from  which  she  had  risen,  and  on  the  back 

ot  which  she  now  leaned. 

•'It's  the  reason  that  looms  largest,"  she  replied 

-  so  large  as  to  put  all  other  reasons  out  of 

consideration." 

"Then  you're  endrely  mistaken,"  he  declared, 

coming  forward  in  such  a  way  that  only  the  chair 

stood    between    them.     "It's    true   that   at   Mrs. 

Bayford  s  provocation  I  spoke  in  haste,  but  it  was 
only  to  utter  the  resolution  I  had  taken  plenty  of 

time  to  form.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  how  much  time, 
you  d  be  inclmed  to  scorn  me  for  my  delay  But 
the  truth  IS  I'm  no  longer  a  very  young  man;  in 
comparison  with  you  I'm  not  young  at  all.  You 
yourself,  as  a  woman  of  the  world,  must  readily 
understand  that  at  my  age,  and  in  my  position, 
prudence  is  as  honorable  an  element  in  the  offer  I 
am  making  you  as  romance  would  be  in  a  boy's 
I  make  no  apology  for  being  prudent.  I  state  the 
fact  that  I  ve  been  so  only  that  you  may  know  that 
1  ve  tned  to  look  at  this  question  from  every  point 
of  view-Dorothea's  as  well  as  yours  and  mine. 

-a  R'"^r  "7't'''°"'  "'  ^"'^  '°"8  ^«f°^«  I  earned 
Airs.  Bayford  that  she  was  speaking  of  one  who  was 
dear  to  me  my  mind  was  made  up.  With  such 
hopes  as  I  had  at  hean  it  would  have  been  wronr 
to  have  allowed  her  to  go  on  without  a  word  of 
warning." 

H3 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  M_K 

"I  can  see  that  it  would  have  that  aspect." 
"Then,  if  you  can  see  that,  you  must  see  that  I 
•peak  to  you  now  in  all  sincerity.     My  desire  isn't 
new.     I  can  truthfully  say  that,  since  the  first  day 
I  saw  you,  your  eyes  and  voice  have  haunted  me, 
and  the  longing  to  be  near  you  has  never  been 
absent  from  my  heart.     I'll  be  quite  frank  with  you 
and  say  that,  before  you  came  here,  it  was  my 
avowed  mtention  not  to  many  again.    Now  I  have 
no  desire  on  earth— my  child  apart— so  strong  as  to 
wm  you  for  my  wife.     The  year  we've  spent  under 
the  same  roof  must  have  given  you  some  idea  of  the 
man  whom  you'd  be  mariying;  and  I  think  I  can 
promise  you  that  with  your  help  he  would  be  a 
better  man  than  in  the  past.     Won't  you  say  that  I 
may  hope  for  it .'" 

With  arms  supported  by  the  high  back  of  the 
chair  and  cheek  on  her  clasped  hands,  she  gazed 
away  mto  the  dimness  of  the  room,  as  if  waiting  for 
hun  to  continue;  but  during  the  silence  that  ensued 
It  seemed  to  Derek  as  if  a  shadow  crossed  her  feat- 
ures, while  her  bright  look  died  out  in  a  kind  of  wist- 
fulness.  She  had,  perhaps,  been  hoping  for  a  word 
he  had  not  spoken-  a  word  whose  absence  he  had 
only  covered  up  by  phrases. 

"Well.?     Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me?"  he 
»sked,  when  some  minutes  had  gone  by 
"I'm  thinking." 
"Of  what.?" 


THE     INNER      S  H  R   T  fJ  n 

"Of  what  you  say  about  prudence.     I  like  il 
it  seeirts  to  me  I  ought  to  be  prudent,  too." 

Undoubtedly,"  he  agreed,  in  the  dvy  tone  of  one 
who  assents  to  what  he  finds  shghtly  disagreeable. 
I  mean,  she  said,  quickly,  "that  I  ought  to  be 
prudent  for  you-for  us  all.  There  are  a  great 
many  things  to  be  thought  of,  things  which  people 
of  our  age  ought  not  to  let  pass  unconsidered.  Men 
think  the  way  through  difficulties,  while  women 
teel  It.  I  m  afraid  I  must  ask  for  time  to  get  mv 
mstmcts  into  play."  ' 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  can't  give  me  an  answer 
to-night— before  I  go  on  this  long  journey  ?" 
"I  couldn't  give  you  an  affirmative  one." 
'But  you  could  say.  No  ?" 

"If  you  pressed  the  matter-if  you  insisted- 
that  s  what  I  should  have  to  sav  " 
"Why?"  ' 

"That  would  be— my  secret." 
"Is  it  that  you  think  you  couldn't  love  me?" 
For  the  first  time  the  color  came  to  her  cheek  and 
surged  up  to  her  temples,  not  suddenly  or  hotly>  but 
with  the  semi-diaphanous  lightness  of  roseate  vapor 
mounting  mto  winter  air.  As  he  came  nearer, 
rounding  the  protective  barrier  of  the  arm-chair, 
she  retreated. 

"I  should  have  to  solve  some  other  question, 
before  I  could  answer  that,"  she  said,  tiyine  to 
meet  his  eyes  with  the  necessary  steadiness. 
»+5 


THE      INNER      SHRINB 

"Couldn't  I  help  you?" 
She  shook  her  head. 
"Then  couldn't  you  consider  it  first?" 
"A  woman  generally  does  considei  it  first,  but 
■he  speaks  about  it  last." 

"But  you  could  tell  me  the  result  of  what  you 
think,  as  far  as  you've  drawn  conclusions  ?" 

"No;  because  whatever  I  should  say  you  would 
find  misleading.  If  you're  in  earnest  about  what 
you  say  to-night,  it  would  b?  better  for  us  both  that 
you  should  give  me  time." 

"  I'm  willing  to  do  that.  But  you  speak  as  if  you 
had  a  doubt  of  me." 

"I've  no  doubt  of  you;  I've  only  a  doubt  about 
myself.  The  woman  you've  known  for  the  last 
twelve  months  isn't  the  woman  other  people  have 
known  in  the  years  before  that.  She  isn't  the 
Diane  Eveleth  of  Paris  any  more  than  she  is  the 
Diane  de  la  Ferronaise  of  the  hills  of  Connemara, 
or  of  the  convent  at  Auteuil.  But  I  don't  know 
which  is  the  real  woman,  or  whether  the  one  who 
now  seems  to  me  dead  mightn't  rise  again." 

"I  shouldn't  be  afraid  of  her." 

"  But  I  should.  You  say  that  because  you  didn't 
know  her;  and  I  couldn't  let  you  marry  me  without 
telling  you  something  of  what  she  was." 

"Then  tell  me." 

"No,  not  now;  not  to-night.    Go  on  your  long 
jowney,  and  come  back.    When  it's  all  over,  I 
146 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

•hall  b«  sure— sure,  that  is,  of  myself— sure  on 
the  point  about  which  I'm  so  much  in  doubt,  at 
to  whether  or  not  the  other  woman  could  re- 
turn." 

"I  should  be  willing  to  run  the  risk,"  he  said,  with 
a  short  laugh,  "even  if  she  did." 

"But  I  shouldn't  be  willing  to  let  you.  You 
forget  she  ruined  one  rich  man;  she  might  easily 
rum  another." 
''That  would  depend  ver>'  much  upon  the  man." 
No  man  can  cope  with  a  woman  such  as  I  was 
only  a  few  years  ago.  You  can  put  fetters  on  a 
cnmmal,  and  you  can  quell  a  beast  to  submission, 
but  you  can't  bind  the  subtle,  mischievous  woman- 
spint,  bent  on  doing  harm.  It's  more  ruthless  than 
war;  it's  more  fatal  than  disease.  You,  with  your 
large,  generous  nature,  are  the  very  man  for  it  to 
fasten  on,  and  waste  him,  like  a  fever." 

She  moved  back  from  him,  close  to  the  book- 
shelves against  the  wall.  The  eyes  which  Derek 
had  always  seen  sad  and  lustreless  glowed  with  a 
fire  like  the  amber's. 

"You  must  understand  that  I  couldn't  allow  my- 
•elf  to  do  the  same  thing  twice,"  she  hurried  on, 
and,  if  I  married  you,  who  knows^ut  what  I 
might  ?  I'm  not  a  bad  woman  by  nature,  but  I 
think  I  must  need  to  be  held  in  repression.  You'd 
be  giving  me  again  just  those  gifts  of  money,  position, 
and  power  which  made  me  dangerous." 
"47 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  N  B 

"Suppose   you   were   to   let   me   guard   against 
Aat  ?"  he  said. 

"  You  couldn't.    It  would  be  like  fighting  a  poison- 
ous vaporwith  the  sword.  The  woman's  spell,  wheth- 
er for  good  or  ill,  is  more  subtle  and  more  potent 
than  anything  in  the  universe  but  the  love  of  God." 
"I  can  believe  that,  and  still  be  willing  to  trust 
myself  to  yours,"  he  answered,  gravely.     "I  know 
you,  and  honor  you  as  men  rarely  do  the  women  they 
marry,  until  the  proof  of  the  years  has  tried  them. 
In  your  case  the  trial  has  come  first.     I've  watched 
you  bear  it— watched  you  more  closely  than  you've 
ever  been  aware  of.     I've  stood  by,  and  seen  you 
carry  your  burden,  when  it  was  harder  than  you 
imagine  not  to  take  my  part  in  it.     I've  looked  on, 
and  seen  you  suffer,  when  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep 
from  saying  some  word  of  sympathy  you  might  have 
resented.     But,  Diane,"  he  cried,  his  voice  taking 
on  a  strange,  peremptory  sharpness,  "I  can't  do  it 
any  longer!    My  power  of  standing  still,  while  you 
go  on  with  your  single-handed  fight,  is  at  an  end. 
If  ever  God  sent  a  man  to  a  woman's  aid.  He  has 
sent  me  to  yours;  and  you  must  let  me  do  what  I'm 
appointed  for.     You  must  come  to  me  for  comfort 
in  your  loneliness.    You  must  come  to  me  for  care 
in  your  necessity.    I  have  both  care  and  comfort  for 
you  here;  and  you  must  come." 

Without  moving  toward  her  he  stood  with  open 
arms. 

148 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  N  B 
"Come!"  he  cried  again,  commandingly. 
The  tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks,  but  she  gave 

no  sign  of  obeying  him,  except  to  drag  one  hand 

from  the  protecting  bookcase  ledge,  to  which  she 

leemed  to  cling. 
"Come,  Diane!"  he  repeated!    "Come  to  mel" 
The  other  hand  fell  to  her  side,  while  she  gazed 

at  him  piteously,  as  though  in  reluctant  submission 

to  his  will. 

"Come!"  he  said  once  more,  in  a  tone  of  au- 
thority mingled  w  tli  appeal. 

Drawn  by  a  force  she  had  no  power  to  withstand, 
she  took  one  slow,  hesitating  step  toward  him. 

"  I  haven't  yielded,"  she  stammered.  "  I  haven't 
consented.     I  can't  consent— yet." 

"No,  dearest,  no,"  he  murmured,  with  arm* 
yearning  to  her  as  she  approached  him;  "never- 
theless— comeJ" 


X 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  fact  that  she  had 
wept  m  his  arms— wept  as  women  weep  who 
are  brave  in  tlie  hour  of  trial,  only  to  break  down 
m  the  moment  of  relief— Diane  would  give  Derek 
Pruyn  no  other  answer.     She  could  not° consent- 
yet.     With  this  reply  he  was  obliged  to  sail  away, 
gettmg  what  comfort  he  might  from  its  implications. 
Dunng  the  three  months  of  his  absence  Diane 
took  knowledge  of  herself,  appraising  her  strength 
and  probmg  her  weakness.     She  was  too  honest  not 
to  own  that  there  were  desires  in  her  nature  which 
leaped  into  newness  of  life  at  the  thought  that  there 
might  again  be  means  to  support  them.     Diane  de 
la  Ferronaise  was  not  dead,   but  sleeping.     Her 
love  of  luxury  and  pleasure— her  joy  in  jewels, 
equipage,  and  dress— her  woman's  elemental  weak- 
nesses, second  only  to  the  instinct  for  maternity- 
all  these,  grown  lethargic  from  hunger,  were  ready 
to  awake  again  at  the  mere  possibility  of  food. 
She  was  forced  to  confront  the  fact  that,  with  the 
»wne  opportunities,  she  had  it  in  her  to  go  back 
»o  the  same  life.    It  was  a  humiliating  fact,  biM  it 
ISO 


THE      INNER      S  U  P   r  kt  p 

stared  her  in  the  face,  that  experience  had  shown 
her  a  creature  for  a  man  to  be  afraid  of.    Derek 
Fruyn  had  seen  her  subdued  by  circumstances,  as 
the  panther  .s  subdued  by  famine;   but  it  wa,  not 
yet  proved  that  the  savage,  preying  thing  was  tan*d. 
Ihere  was  only  one  force  that  would  tame  her; 
but  there  was  th^t  force,  and  Diane  knew  that  she 
had  submitted  to  its  domination.     From  weeks  of 
tonuous   self-examination   she  emerged   into  thi« 
knowledge,  as  one  comes  out  of  a  labyrinthine 
cavern  mto  sunshine.     Even  here  in  the  open,  how- 
ever, there  was  a  problem  still  to  solve.     Could  sh« 
marry  the  man  who  had  never  told  her  that  he 
loved  hsr,  even  though  she  herself  Joved  him  ?    Had 
she  the  power  to  give  herself  without  stint,  while 
asking  of  h.m  only  what  he  chose  to  offer  her.? 
Would  she,  who  had  made  men  serve  her,  with 
httle  more  than  smiles  for  their  reward,  be  rontent 
to  serve  m  her  own  turn,  getting  nothing  but  a 
half-loaf  for  her  heart's  sustenance?    She  asked 
herself  these  questions,  but  put  off  answering  them 
-waitmg  for  him  to  force  decision  on  her 

So  the  rest  of  the  winter  passed,  and  by  the  time 
Derek  came  back  the  hyacinths  were  fading  from 
the  gardens  and  parks,  and  the  tulips  were  comiW 
.nto  bloom.  To  both  Diane  and  Dorothea  sprinf 
was  bnngmg  a  new  motive  for  looking  forward 
together  with  a  new  comprehension  of  Uie  human 
heart  s  capacity  for  joy. 

»5i 


THE     INNER      S  H  H  T  r^  n 

Perhaps  no  day  of  their  patient  waiting  was  so 
long  in  passing  as  that  on  which  it  was  announced 
to  them  that  Derek  Pruyn  had  landed  that  after- 
noon.    He  had  sent  word  that  he  could  not  come 
home  at  once,  as  business  required  his  immediate 
presence  at  the  office.     Having  already  exhausted 
their  ingenuity  m  adorning  the  house,  and  putting 
everything  he  could  possibly  want  in   the  place 
where  he  could  most  easily  find  it.  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  sit  thro,;gh  the  long  hours  in  an 
impatience  which  even  Diane  found  it  difficult  to 
disguise.     The  visits   of  the  postman   were  wel- 
comed as  affording  the  additional  task  of  arranging 
Derek's  letters  on  the  desk  in  the  small,  book-lined 
room  specially  devoted  to  his  use;   and  when,  in 
the  evening,  a  cablegram  arrived,  Diane  herself 
propped  It  m  a  conspicuous  place,  with   a   tiny 
Mlyer  dagger,  for  opening  the  envelope,  beside  it 
The  act,  with  its  suggestion  of  intimate  life,  gave 
her  a  stealthy  pleasure;  and  when  Dorothea  glided 
in  and  caught  her  sitting  in  Derek's  own  chair  at 
the  desk,  she  blushed  like  a  school-girl  detected  in 
«  crime.     It  was  perhaps  this  acknowledgment  of 
weakness  that  enabled  Dorothea  to  speak  out,  and 
say  what  had  been  for  some  time  on  her  mind. 

"Diane,"  she  asked,  dropping  among  the  cush- 
ions of  a  divan,  "are  you  going  to  many  father?" 
Diane  felt  the  color  receding  from  her  face  as 
nly  as  it  had  come,  while  she  gained  time  ia 
152 


I 


which  to  collect  her  astonished  wits  by  putting  the 
silver  dagger  down  beside  the  telegram  with  feed 
less  exactitude  before  attempting  a'respoLe 
.      Do  you  remember  what  Sir  Walter  Scott  said 
m  the  days  when  the  authorship  of  fFaJ/f^ 
till  a  secret,  to  the  indiscreet  people  who  asked  him 

Ih/dT    k'T""^    'No/ he  answered;   <buttf 
I  had  I  should  give  you  the  same  reply.'" 

tell  mer"""'  ^  '"^^' ''  '''''^°"  ''''"'» '^'^  ^ 
^^2l  ™>ght  be  taken  to  imply  something  of  the 

dellll'  """"  °^  *"'"'  ^  '"PP"^*^  "  ^«"'d  be  more 
delicate  on  my  part  not  to  ask  you." 

I  won't  attempt  to  contradict  you  there." 
I  shouldn  t  do  It  if  I  didn't  wish  you  w.r,  goins 
to  ma_riy  him.     I've  wanted  it  a  long  time7K 
want  It  more  than  ever  now."  >   "•"  i 

"Why  more  than  ever  now?" 

lon^^ys'llf."'  """'  "  '^  --^•^  »'^^-  vety 

J^3  ^  "'"'"'■"  '°  '"'I"'"  *°  ^h'-ch  of  the 

"To  none  of  the  many.    There's  never,  really 
been  more  than  one."  ^^ 

"And  his  name — .?" 
"Is  Carli  Wappinger." 
"Oh,  Dorothea  1" 

"That's  just  it    That's  why  I  want  you  to 
'53 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

many  father.    I  want  to  put  a  stop  to  the  'Oh, 
Dorotheas!'   and  you're   the  only   person   in   the 
World  who  can  help  me  do  it." 
"How?" 

"1  don't  have  to  tell  you  that.  It's  one  of  the 
reasons  why  I  rely  on  you  so  thoroughly  that  you 
always  know  exactly  what  to  do  without  having  to 
receive  suggestions.  I  put  myself  in  your  hands 
endrely." 

"You  mean  that  you're  gjoing  to  many  a  man  to 
whom  your  father  will  be  bitterly  opposed,  and 
you  expect  me  to  win  his  joyful  benediction." 

"That's  about  it,"  Dorothea  sighed,  from  the 
depth  of  her  cushions. 

"Of  course,  I  must  be  grateful  to  you,  dear,  for 
this  display  of  confidence;  but  you  won't  be  sur- 
prised if  I  find  it  rather  overwhelming." 

"I  shall  be  very  much  surprised,  indeed.  I've 
never  seen  you  find  anything  overwhelming  yet; 
and  you've  been  put  in  some  difficult  situations. 
You  only  have  to  live  things  in  order  to  make  other 
people  take  them  for  granted.  You've  never  done 
anything  to  specially  please  father,  and  yet  he 
listens  to  you  as  if  you  were  an  oracle.  It's  the 
same  way  with  me.  If  any  one  had  told  me  two 
years  ago  that  I  should  ever  come  to  praying  for 
a  stepmother  I  should  have  thought  them  crazy; 
and  yet  I  have  come  to  it,  just  because  it's  you." 
After  that  it  was  not  unnatural  that  Diane 
154 


THE      INNER      S  H  H   r  f^  n 

should  go  and  sit  on  the  dJvan  beside  Dorothea 
for  an  exchange  of  such  confidences  as  could  not 
be  conveniently  made  from  a  distance.  If  she 
admitted  anything  on  her  own  part,  it  was  by 

ZL h  "r  ."i'"  *^"  "^y  ''--'  assertion  and 
1  JS  ")\^'^  not  promise  in  words  to  co^e  to 

KT      °/'''\J'°"''^f"'  'overs,  she  allowed  the  pos- 
sibihty  that  she  would  do  so  to  be  assumed.     ^ 

i^o,  m  soft,  whispered,  broken  confessions  the 
evening  slipped  away  more  rapidly  than  the  day 
had  done,  and  by  ten  o'clock  they  knew  he  mus^ 
be  near.  The  last  touch  of  welcome  came  when 
Aey  passed  from  room  to  room,  lighting  up  the 
big  house  in  cheerful  readiness  for  its  lord's  in! 
spection.  When  all  was  done  Dorothea  stationed 
herself  at  a  window  near  the  street,  while  Diane, 
with  a  cunous  shnnking  from  what  she  had  t^ 
face,  took  her  seat  in  the  remotest  and  obscures. 

rZ"  'Vk  T'  *^''""'  °^  '^'  "^°  drawing, 
rooms.  When  the  sound  of  wheels,  followed  by  a 
loud  ring  at  the  bell,  told  her  that  he  was  actually 

Dorothea  danced  into  the  hall,  with  a  en.  and  a 
laugh  which  were  stifled  in  her  father's  embrace 
IJiane  rose  mstinctively,  waiting  humbly  and 
silently  where  she  stood.  At  their  parting  she  III 
torn  herself,  weeping  and  protesting,  from  his 
arms:  but  when  he  came  in  to  find  her  now.  he 
'55 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

would  see  that  she  had  yielded.    The  door  was 
half  open  dirough  which  he  was  to  pass— never 
agam  to  leave  herl 
"Diane  is  in  there." 

It  was  Dorothea's  voice  that  spoke,  but  the  reply 
reached  the  far  drawing-room  only  as  a  murmur 
of  deep,  inarticulate  bass. 
"What's  the  matter,  father?" 
Dorothea's  clear  voice  rose  above  die  noise  of 
servants  moving  articles  of < luggage  in  the  hall;  but 
agam  Diane  heard  nothing  beyond  a  confused 
muttering  in  answer.  She  wondered  that  he  did 
not  come  to  her  at  once,  though  she  supposed  there 
was  some  slight  prosaic  reason  to  prevent  his 
doing  so. 

"Father"— Dorothea's  voice  came  again,  this 
time  with  a  distinct  note  of  anxiety— "father,  you 
don't  look  well.    Your  eyes  are  bloodshot." 

"I'm  quite  well,  thank  you,"  was  the  curt  reply, 
this  time  perfectly  audible  to  Diane's  ears.  "Sim- 
mons, you  fool,  don't  leave  those  steamer  rugs 
down  here  I" 

Diane  had  never  heard  him  speak  so  to  a  servant, 
and  she  knew  that  something  had  gone  amiss. 
Perhaps  he  was  anroyed  that  she  had  not  come  to 
greet  him.  Perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  duties  of  her 
position  to  receive  him  at  the  door.  She  had 
known  him  to  give  way  occasionally  to  bursts  of 
anger,  in  which  a  word  from  herself  had  soothed 


THE     I  N  N  E  R     SHRINE 

him.  Leaving  her  place  in  the  comer,  she  ^-af 
kunying  to  the  hall,  when  again  Dorothea's  voice 
anested  her. 

"Aren't  you  going  in  to  see  Diane  ?" 

"No." 

From  w^ere  she  stood,  just  within  the  door, 
Diane  knew  that  he  had  flung  the  word  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  went  up  the  hall  toward  the  stair- 
way. He  was  going  to  his  room  without  speaking 
to  her.  For  an  instant  she  stood  still  from  con- 
sternation, but  it  was  in  emergencies  like  this  that 
her  spirit  rose.  Without  further  hesitation  she 
passed  out  into  the  hall,  just  as  Deiek  Pruyn  turned 
at  the  bend  m  the  staircase,  on  his  way  upward, 
for  a  bnef  second,  as,  standing  below,  she  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  in  questioning,  their  glances  met; 
but,  on  his  part,  it  was  without  recognition. 


XI 


HALF  an  hour  after  Derek's  return  Diane  wu 
suinmoned  into  his  presence  in  the  little  room 
where  she  had  arranged  his  'etters  in  the  afternoon. 
The  door  was  standing  opeh,  and  she  went  in  slow- 
ly, her  head  high.  She  was  dressed  as  when  she 
had  parted  from  him;  and  the  whiteness  of  her 
neck  and  shoulders,  free  from  jewels,  collar,  or 
chain,  was  the  more  brilliant  from  contrast  with  the 
•evere  line  of  black.  In  her  pale  face  all  expression 
was  focussed  into  the  pained  inquiry  of  her  eyes. 

She  entered  so  silently  that  he  did  not  hear  her, 
or  lift  his  head  from  the  hand  on  which  it  leaned 
wearily,  as  he  rested  his  elbow  on  the  desk.  Paus- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  room,  she  had  time  to  notice 
that  he  had  opened  a  few  of  the  letters  lying  before 
him,  but  had  thrust  them  impatiently  from  him, 
evidently  unread.  The  cablegram  she  had  laid 
where  his  glance  would  immediately  fall  upon  it 
was  between  his  fingers,  but  the  envelope  was  un- 
broken. His  attitude  was  so  much  that  of  a  man 
tired  and  dispirited  that  her  heart  went  out  to  him. 

It  was  perhaps  the  involuntary  sigh  that  broke 
ic8 


THE     INNER      SHRINK 

ftom  her  lips  that  caused  him  to  looic  up.    When 
he  did  so  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  her  with  a 
dazed  stare,  as  though  he  wondered  whence  and 
for  what  she  had  come.     In  the  eager  attention 
widi  which  she  regarded  him  she  noted  subcon- 
Kjously  that  he  was  unshaven  and  ill-kempt,  £wd 
that  his  eyes,  as  Doro  hca  had  said,  were  bloodshot 
He  dragged  himself  to  his  feet,  and  with  forced 
counesy  asked  her  to  sit  down.    She  allowed  her 
self  to  sink  mechanically  to  the  edge  of  the  divan 
where,  only  an  hour  ago,  Dorothea  and  she  had 
«changed  happy  confidences.    In  the  minutes  of 
iilence  that  followed,  when  he  had  resumed  his  own 
ttax,  she  felt  as  if  she  were  in  some  queer  night 
mare,  where  nothing  could  be  explained. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  young  French  explorer 
named  Persigny?" 

She  nodded,  without  speaking.     The  irrelevancy 
of  die  question  was  m  keeping  with  the  odd  horror 
of  the  dream. 
"Did  you  know  lie  was  exploring  in  Brazil?" 
"I  think  1  may  have  heard  so." 
"He  came  up  from  Rio  with  me— on  the  same 
fteamer." 

She  listened,  with  eyes  fixed  fast  upon  him,  won- 
dering what  he  meant 

"He  wasn't  alone,"  Derek  went  on,  speaking  in 
a  lifeless  monotone.  "There  were  others  of  hk 
party  with  him.  There  was  one.  especially,  with 
»S9 


THE     INNER      S  H  K  T  ,^  n 

whom   I   became  on   terms  that  were  aImo«— 
intimate." 

For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  her  that  he  was 
tiymg  to  see  through  her  thoughts;  but  in  her  be- 
wilderment at  his  words,  she  met  his  gaze  steadily 
•There  was  something  about  this  young  man 
that  attracted  me,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  dull 
voice  and  Ilistened  to  his  troubles.  In  particular 
he  told  me  why  he  had  fled  from  Paris  to  hide  him- 
self in  the  forests  of  the  Amazon.  Shall  I  teU  yon 
the  reason  ?  '  •' 

"If  you  like." 

"It  was  an  old  stoiy;  in  some  respects  a  nilnr 
«oiy.  He  had  got  into  the  toils  of  an  unscnipulou. 
woman."  C"-"!" 

Her  sudden  perception  of  what  he  was  leadinc 
up  to  forced  her  into  a  little  involuntaiy  xaofl 
ment. 

"I  see  you  understand,"  he  said,  quickly,  wiik 
Ae  glimmer  of  a  smile.  «I  thought  you  would: 
for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  much  of  what  he  said  broueht 
back  our  conversation  on  the  night  before  I  saHed. 
1  here  was  not  a  litde  in  it  that  was  mysteiy  to  me 
at  the  time,  which  he— illumined." 

She  sat  with  lips  parted  and  bosom  heaving,  her 
hands  clasped  tightly  in  her  lap.    If  she  was  con- 
scious of  any  sensation,  it  was  of  terrible  curiositr 
to  know  how  the  tale  was  to  be  turned. 
"What  you  said  to  me  then,"  he  pursued,  in  dw 
i6o 


THE      INNER      S  H  K   tm  ^ 

wnie  cruel  <^ietness  of  tone-"  what  you  said  to 
me  then,  as  to  the  influence  of  a  bad  womar.  in  a 
mans  ife,  seemed  to  me-what  shall  I  say?-not 
precisely  exaggerated,  but  soir.cwl.ut  ovenvroueht 
i  d.dn  t  know  u  could  be  so  tr.e  ro  the  actual  facts 
of  experience.  My  friend'-.  .v.„<ls  ..:  t.me.  v  e« 
almost  an  echo  of  your  ovvn  1/e  hac'  tern  ,Jk 
lover  of  a  woman—" 

Once  more  she  started,  raising  J.er  hand  in  silent 
protest  against  the  words. 

"He-had-been-the-lover  cf-a-wom. 
an,  he  repeated,  *,th  slow  emphasis,  "^vho,  after 
having  mined  her  husband's  life,  was  preparing  to 
nun  his  She  would  have  ruined  his  as  she  had 
mined  the  Ives  of  other  men  before  him.  When  he 
endeavored  to  elude  her,  she  set  on  her  husband  to 

^f  »  rr\,  ^r'^r.^'  »  <J"«J^r  the  semblance 
of  a  duel.  My  fnend  fired  into  the  air.  The  poor 
devil  of  a  husband  shot  himself.  It  appears  that 
he  had  eveiy  reason  for  doing  so." 
"My  husband  didn't  shoot  himself." 
"Your  husband?"  he  asked,  with  an  ironical 
Jftmg  of  the  eyebrows.  "What  makes  you  think 
I  ve  been  speaking  of  him  ?" 

"The  man  whom  you  call  your  friend  is  the 
Marquis  de  Bienville—" 

"He  didn't  mention  your  name;  but  I  see  you're 
«ble  to  tell  me  his.    It's  what  I  was  afraid  of     I've 
repeated  only  a  very  little  of  what  he  said;  but  since 
i6t 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

jrou  recognize  its  truth  already,  it  isn't  necessaiy  to 
continue." 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead,  with  the 
gesture  of  one  tiying  desperately  to  see  aright 

"I  must  ask  you  to  tell  me  plainly:  Was  I  the— 
the  unscrupulous  woman  into  whose  toils  Monsieur 
de  Bienville  fell?" 

"He  didn't  say  so." 

"Then  why— why  have  you  spoken  of  this  w 
me  ?" 

"Because  what  I  heard  from  him  fitted  in  so 
exactly  with  what  I  had  heard  from  you  that  it 
made  an  entire  story.  It  was  like  the  two  parts  of 
a  puzzle.  The  one  without  the  other  is  incomplete 
and  perplexing;  but  having  both,  yr  u  can  see  the 
perfect  whole.  I  will  be  frank  enough  to  tell  you 
that  many  of  your  sayings  were  dark  to  me  until 
I  had  his  to  lend  them  light." 

"Would  it  be  of  any  use  to  say  that  what  he  told 
you  wasn't  true?" 

"I  don't  know  that  it  would  be  of  any  use  to  tay 
k,  unless  it  could  be  proved." 
"Did  you  ask  him  to  give  you  proof?" 
"No;  because  you  had  already  provided  me  with 
that." 
"How?" 

"Surely  you  must  remember  telling  me  that  yo« 
had  ruined  one  rich  man,  and  might  ruin  another: 
*«t  no  man  could  cope  with  a  woman  such  as  you 
162 


were  two  or  three  years  ago.  There  were  these 
tt-njl"  "  """'  °*''  things-many  other 
''And  that's  what  you  understood  from  them?" 
1  understood  nothing  whatever.  If  I  thouehi 
of  such  words  at  all,  it  was  to  attribute  them  to  a 
morbid  sensibility.    It  wasn't  until  I  got  their  in- 

until  I  had  met  some  one  who  knew  you  before  I 
did,  and  better  than  I  did—" 

no'Jlr"'"''  f-  '''^"/''"yo"  Aought  of  me  what 
no  man  ever  thinks  of  a  woman  until  he  is  ready  to 
trample  her  m  the  mire,  under  his  feet  " 

Straightening  himself  up,  as   a  man  who  de. 
fendshis  position,  he  took  an  argumentative  tone. 
What  motive  would  Bienville  have  for  Ivine  ?- 
»  a  stranger .?~and  about  a  stranger?    There  are 
moments  when  you  know  a  man  is  telling  you  the 
truth  as  if  he  were  m  the  confessional.     He  wasn't 
speaking  of  you.  but  of  himself.    Not  only  were  no 
names  mentioned,  but  he  had  no  reason  to  think  I 
had  ever  heard  of  the  woman  he  talked  to  me  about, 
norhasheyet.     If  U  hadn't  been  for  your  own  half! 
hmts,  your  own  half-confessions,  I  doubt  if  I  should 
ever^have  had  more  than  a  suspicion  of-<,f_the 

wil^T'\''^''l''''P'''"'''  ^^^T'hing,"  she  said, 

fro«  ycu  the  fact  that  there  was  a  time  in  my  lif, 
163 


11 


-:   ]i 


. 


!iS«' 


THE     INNER      SHRINS 

when  I  was  very  indiscreet.  I  lived  like  the  women 
of  fashion  around  me.  I  was  inconsiderate  of  other 
people.  I  did  things  that  were  wrong.  But  before 
I  knew  you  I  had  repented  of  them." 

"Quite  so;  but,  unfonunately,  what  is  conven- 
tionally known  as  a  repentant  woman  is  not  the 
sort  of  person  I  would  have  chosen  to  be  near  mv 
child."  ' 

She  rose,  wearily,  dragging  herself  toward  the 
desk.  "  Now  that  I've  heard  your  opinion  of  me," 
she  said,  quietly,  "I  suppose  you  have  no  reason  for 
detaining  me  any  longer." 

"Are  you  going  away  ?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"What  else  is  there  for  me  to  do  ?" 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  in  your  own  defence  ?" 

"  You  haven't  asked  me  to  say  anything.  You've 
tiied  and  condemned  me  unheard.  Since  you 
adopt  that  method  of  justice  I'm  forced  to  abide  by 
it.  I'm  not  like  a  person  who  has  rights  ot  who 
can  claim  protection  from  any  outside  authority. 
You're  not  only  judge  and  jury  to  me,  but  my  final 
court  of  appeal.  I  must  take  what  you  mete  out  to 
me — and  bear  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you,"  he  groaned. 

"No;  I  can  believe  that.  I  dare  say  the  situation 
is  just  as  cruel  for  you  as  for  me.  When  circum- 
stances become  so  entangled  that  you  can't  explain 
ihem,  everybody  has  to  suffer." 

"I'm  glad  you  can  do  me  that  justice.    My  life 
164 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  N  E 

for  the  past  week— ever  since  Bienville  began  to 
ulk  to  me— has  been  hell." 

"I'm  soriy  for  that.  I'm  .sorry  to  have  brought 
It  on  you.  I'm  afraid,  too,  that  the  future  may  be 
harder  for  you  still;  for  no  man  can  do  a  woman  such 
wrong  as  you're  doing  me,  and  not  pay  for  it." 

"Wrong.?  Can  you  honestly  say  I'm  doing  you 
wrong,  Diane?  Isn't  it  true-you'il  pardon  me  if 
I  put  my  questions  bluntly,  the  cir-umstan-es  don't 
permit  of  sparing  either  your  feelings  or  my  own— 
isn't  It  true  that  for  two  or  three  years  before  your 
husband's  death  your  name  in  Paris  was  nothing 
short  of  a  byword  .?" 

"I'm  not  sure  of  what  you  mean  by  a  byword 
I  acknowledge  that  I  braved  public  opinion,  and 
that  much  ill  was  said  of  me— often,  more  vhan  I 
deserved." 

"Isn't  it  true  that  your  name  was  connected 
with  that  of  a  man  called  Lalanne,  and  that  he  was 
killed  in  a  duel  on  your  account  ?" 

"It's  true  that  Monsieur  Lalanne  made  love 
to  me;  it's  also  true  that  he  was  killed  in  a  duel; 
but  It's  not  true  that  it  was  on  my  account.  Tlie  in- 
stance is  an  excellent  illustration  of  the  degree  to 
which  the  true  and  the  false  are  mixed  in  Parisian 
gossip— perhaps  in  all  gossip— and  a  woman's  repu- 
tation blasted.  Unhappily  for  me,  I  felt  myself 
young  and  strong  enough  to  be  indifferent  to  repu- 
tauon.  I  treated  it  with  the  neglect  one  often  be 
.6s 


it:  !!! 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

«tow8  upon  one's  health— not  thinking  that  there 
would  come  a  day  of  reckoning." 

"If  there  had  been  only  one  such  case  it  might 
have  been  allowed  to  pass;  but  what  do  you  say  of 
De  Cretteville  ?  what  of  De  Melcourt  ?  what  of  Lord 
Wendover  ?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  but  this:  that  for  such 
scandal  I've  a  rule,  from  which  I  have  no  intention 
of  departing  even  now:  I  neither  tell  it,  nor  listen 
to  it,  nor  contradict  it.  If  it  pleases  the  Marquis 
de  Bienville  to  repeat  it,  and  you  to  give  it  credence, 
I  can't  stoop  to  correct  it,  even  in  my  own  defence." 

"God  knows  I'm  not  delving  into  scandal,  Diane. 
If  I  bring  up  these  miserable  names,  it's  only  that 
you  may  have  the  opportunity  to  right  yourself" 

"It's  an  opportunity  impossible  for  me  to  use. 
If  I  were  to  attempt  to  unravel  the  strand  of  truth 
from  the  web  of  falsehood,  it  would  end  in  your  con- 
demning me  the  more.  The  canons  of  conduct  in 
France  are  so  different  from  those  in  America  that 
what  is  permissible  in  one  country  is  heinous  in  the 
other.  In  the  same  way  that  your  young  girls  shock 
our  conceptions  of  propriety,  our  married  women 
shock  yours.  It  would  he  useless  to  defend  myself 
in  your  eyes,  because  I  should  be  appealing  to  a 
standard  to  which  I  was  never  taught  to  conform." 
"I  thought  I  had  taken  that  into  consideration. 
I'm  not  entirely  ignorant  of  the  conditions  undet 
which  you've  lived,  and  I  meant  to  have  allowed  foi 
i66 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

jfcenn.  But  isn't  it  true  that  you  exceeded  the  veiy 
wide  latitude  recognized  by  public  opinion,  even  in 
a  place  like  Paris  ?" 

"I  didn't  take  public  opinion  into  account.  I 
wa«  reckless  of  its  injustice,  as  I  was  careless  of  its 
applause.  I  see  now,  however,  that  indifference 
to  either  brings  its  punishment." 

"Those  are  abstract  ideas,  and  I'm  trj^ing  to  deal 
wiA  concrete  facts.  Isn't  it  true  diat  George 
Eveleth  was  a  rich  man  when  you  married  him, 
and  that  your  extravagance  ruined  him .?" 

"It  helped  to  ruin  him.  I  plead  guilty  to  diat. 
I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  value  of  money;  but  I 
don't  offer  that  as  an  excuse." 

"Isn't  it  true  that  the  Marquis  de  Bienville  was 
your  lover,  and  that  you  were  thinking  of  desening 
your  husband  to  go  with  him .?" 

"It's  true  that  the  Marquis  de  Bienville  asked 
me  to  do  so,  and  that  I  was  rash  enough  to  turn 
him  into  ridicule.  I  shouldn't  have  done  it  if  I 
had  known  that  there  was  a  man  in  the  worlj  capa- 
ble of  taking  such  a  revenge  upon  a  woman  as  he 
took  on  me." 
"What  revenge?" 

"The  revenge  you're  executing  at  this  minute. 
He  said— what  very  few  men,  thank  God,  will  say 
•f  a  woman,  even  when  it's  true,  and  what  it  takes 
a  dastard  to  say  when  it's  not  true.  Evpn  in  the 
case  of  the  fallen  woman  there's  a  chivaixouf 
167 


I 


!i'i 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

human  pity  that  protects  her;  while  there's  some- 
thing more  than  that  due  to  the  most  foolish  of  our 
sex  who  has  not  fallen.  I  took  it  for  granted  that, 
at  the  worst,  I  could  count  on  that,  until  I  met 
your  friend.  His  cup  of  vengeance  will  be  full 
when  he  learns  that  he  has  given  you  the  power  to 
insult  me." 

"I  don't  mean  to  insult  you,"  he  said,  in  a  dogged 
*ojce»  "but  I  mean,  if  possible,  to  know  the  truth." 

"I'm  not  concealing  it.'  I'm  ready  to  tell  you 
anything." 

"Then,  tell  me  this:  isn't  it  the  case  that  when 
Georgp  Eveleth  discovered  your  relations  with 
Bienville,  he  challenged  him  ?" 

"It's  the  case  that  he  challenged  him,  not  be- 
cause of  what  he  discovered,  but  of  what  Monsieur 
de  Bienville  said." 

"At  their  encounter,  didn't  Bienville  fire  into  dw 
air— f" 

"I've  never  heard  so." 

"And  didn't  George  Eveleth  fall  from  a  self- 
inflicted  shot  ?" 

"No.  He  died  at  the  hand  of  the  Marquis  de 
Bienville."  ^ 

"So  you  told  me  once  before,  though  you  didn't 
tell  me  the  man's  name.  But,  Diane,  aren't  you 
convinced  m  your  heart  that  George  Eveleth  knew 
that  which  made  his  life  no  longer  worth  die 
living?" 


THE     INNER      S  H  R  I  N  B 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  knew  loniethine— about 
me?" 

"Yes — about  you." 

"That's  the  moK  cruel  chaige  Monneur  d« 
Bienville  has  invented  yet" 

"Suppose  he  didn't  invent  it?  SuppoM  k  was 
a  fact?" 

"Have  you  any  puipose  In  subjecting  me  to  this 
needless  torture  ?" 

"I  have  a  purpose,  and  I'm  sorry  if  it  involves 
torture;  but  I  assure  you  it  isn't  needless.  I  must 
get  to  the  bottom  of  diis  thing.  I've  asked  you  to 
marry  me;  and  I  must  know  if  my  future  wife—" 

"  But  I'm  not— your  future  wife." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen.  I  can  come  to  no 
decision — " 

"But  I  can." 

"That  must  wait.  The  point  before  us  is  this: 
Did,  or  did  not,  George  Eveleth  kill  himself?" 

"He  did  not." 

"You  must  understand  that  it  would  prove  noth- 
ing if  he  did." 

"It  would  prove,  or  go  far  to  prove,  what  you 
said  just  now— that  I  had  made  his  life  not  worth 
the  living." 

"His  money  troubles  may  have  counted  for  some- 
thmg  m  that.  What  it  would  do  is  this:  it  would 
help  to  corroborate  Bienville's  word  against— 
yours."  " 

169 


I'l 


THE     INNER      SHRINB 

"Ftrtunatelj  there  are  means  of  proving  that 
Fm  right.  I  can't  tell  ■>.  du  exactly  what  they  aie; 
but  I  know  that,  in  France,  when  people  die  dw 
registers  tell  just  what  tliey  died  of." 

"I've  already  sent  for  the  necessary  information. 
I've  done  even  mr.r-  than  that.  I  couldn't  wait  for 
the  slow  process  ;.c  mails.  I  cabled  this  morn- 
ing to  Grimsto.  ,  xjoe  of  my  Paris  partners,  to  wire 
me  the  cause  of  Cjeorge  Eveleth's  death,  as  officially 
registered.    This  is  his  reply." 

He  held  up  the  envelope  Diane  had  placed  on  die 
desk  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"  Why  don't  you  <^en  it  f  she  asked,  in  a  whis- 
per of  suspense. 

"I've  been  afraid  to.  I've  been  afraid  that  it 
would  prove  him  right  in  the  one  detail  in  which 
I'm  able  to  put  his  word  to  the  test.  I've  been 
hoping  against  hope  that  you  would  clear  yourself; 
but  if  this  is  in  his  favor — " 

"Open  it,"  she  pleaded. 

With  the  silver  dagger  she  had  laid  ready  to  his 
hand  he  ripped  up  the  envelope,  and  drew  out  the 
paper. 

"Read  it,"  he  said,  passing  it  to  her,  without 
enfolding  it. 

Though  it  contained  but  one  word,  Diane  took 

a  long  time  to  decipher  it.     For  minutes  she  stared 

at  it,  as  though  the  power  of  comprehension  had 

fonaken  her.     Again  and  again  she  lifted  her  eyes 

170 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

to  his,  in  sheer  bewilderment,  only  to  drop  them 
then  once  more  on  the  all  but  blank  sheet  in  her 
hand.  At  last  it  seemed  as  if  her  fingers  had  n* 
more  strength  to  hold  it,  and  she  let  it  flutter  to 
the  floor. 

"He  was  right  r 

The  question  came  in  a  hoarse  undertone,  but 
Diane  had  no  voice  in  which  to  reply.  She  could 
only  nod  he;  .lead  in  dumb  assent. 

It  grew  late,  and  Derek  Pruyn  still  sat  in  the 
position  in  which  Diane  had  left  him.  His  hands 
rested  clinched  on  the  desk  before  him,  while  his 
eyes  stared  vacantly  at  the  cluster  of  electric  lights 
overhead.  He  was  hving  through  the  conversa- 
tions with  Bienville  on  shipboard.  He  began  with 
the  first  time  he  had  noticed  the  tall,  brown-eyed, 
black-bearded  young  Frenchman  on  the  day  when 
they  sailed  out  of  the  harbor  of  Rio  de  Janeiro.  He 
passed  on  to  their  first  interchange  of  casual  re- 
marks, leaning  together  over  the  deck-rail,  and 
watching  the  lights  of  Para  recede  into  the  dark- 
ness. It  was  in  the  hot,  still  evenings  in  the  Carib- 
bean Sea  that,  smoking  in  neighboring  deck-chairs, 
they  had  first  drifted  into  intimate  talk,  and  the 
young  man  had  begun  to  unburden  himself  They 
had  been  distinctly  interesting  to  Derek,  these 
glimpses  of  a  joyous,  idle,  light-o'-love  life,  with 
a  tragic  element  never  very  far  below  its  surface, 
171 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

■o  different  from  his  own  gray  career  of  busi- 
ness. They  not  only  beguiled  the  tedious  nights, 
but  they  opened  up  vistas  of  romance  to  an 
imagination  growing  dull  before  its  time,  in  the 
seriousness  of  laige  practical  affairs.  In  propor- 
tion as  the  young  Frenchman  showed  himself  will- 
ing to  narrate,  Derek  became  a  sympathetic  listener. 
As  Bienville  told  of  his  pursuit,  now  of  this  fair 
face,  and  now  of  that,  Derek  received  the  impression 
of  a  chase,  in  which  the  hunted  engages  not  of 
necessi^r,  but,  like  Atalanta,  in  sheer  glee  of  ex- 
citement. Like  Atalanta,  too,  she  was  apt  to  over- 
estimate her  speed,  and  to  end  in  being  caught. 

It  was  not  till  after  he  had  recounted  a  number 
of  petites  histoires,  more  or  less  amusing,  that  Bien- 
ville came  to  what  he  called  "Paffaire  la  plus 
terieuse  Je  ma  vie,"  while  Derek  drank  in  the  tale 
with  all  the  avidity  the  jealous  heart  brings  to  the 
augmentation  of  its  pain.  To  the  idealizing  purity 
of  his  conception  of  Diane  any  earthly  failing  on 
her  part  became  the  extremity  of  sin.  He  had 
placed  her  so  high  that  when  she  fell  it  was  to  no 
middle  flight  of  guilt;  as  to  the  fallen  angel,  there 
was  no  choice  for  her,  in  his  estimation,  between 
heaven  and  the  nrtner  hell. 

Outwardly  he  was  an  ordinary  passenger,  smok- 
ing quiedy  in  a  deck-chair,  in  order  to  pass  the  time 
between  dinner  and  the  hour  for  "turning  in." 
His  voice,  as  he  plied  Bienville  with  questions,  be- 
17a 


THE      INNER      SHRINB 

trayed  his  emotions  no  more  than  the  darkened 
surface  of  the  sea  gave  evidence  of  the  raging  life 
within  its  depths.     To  Bienville  himself,  during 
these  idle,  balmy  nights,  there  was  a  threefold  in- 
q>iration,  which  in  no  case  called  for  strict  exacti- 
tude of  detail.     There  was,  first,  the  pleasure  of 
talking  about  himself;   there  was,  next,  the  desire 
to  give  his  career  the  advantage  of  a  romantic  light; 
and  there  was,  thirdly,  the  stoty-teller's  natural  in- 
stinct to  hold  his  hearer  spellbound.    The  little 
more  or  the  little  less  could  not  matter  to  a  man 
whom  he  didn't  know,  in  talking  about  a  woman 
whose  name  he  hadn't  given;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  was  the  satisfaction,  to  which  the  Latin 
is  so  sensitive,  of  showing  himself  a  lion  among  ladies. 
Moreover,  he  had  boasted  of  his  achievementt 
so  often  that  he  had  come  to  believe  in  them  long 
before  giving  Derek  the  dettiled  account  of  his  vic- 
tory on  the  gleaming  Caribbean  seas.    On  his  part, 
Derek  had  found  no  difficulty  in  crediting  that  which 
was  related  with  apparent  fidelity  to  fact,  and  which 
filled  up,  in  so  remarkable  a  manner,  the  emp^ 
^aces  between  the  mysterious,  broken  hints  Diane 
had  at  various  times  given  him  of  her  own  inner  life 
The  one  story  helped  to  tell  the  other  as  accurately 
as  the  fragments  of  an  ancient  stele,  when  put  to- 
gether, make  up  the  whole  inscription.    The  very 
independence  of  the  sources  from  which  he  drew 
his  knowledge  negatived  the  possibility  of  doubt 
"  '73 


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THE      INNER      SHRINE 

There  was  but  one  way  in  which  Diane  could 
have  put  herself  right  with  him:  she  could  have 
•wept  the  charge  aside,  with  a  serene  contemptuous- 
ness  of  denial.  Had  she  done  so,  her  assertion 
would  have  found  his  own  eagerness  to  believe  in 
her  ready  to  meet  it  half-way.  As  it  was.,  alas!  her 
admissions  had  been  damning.  Where  she  ac- 
knowledged the  smoke,  there  surely  must  have  been 
the  fire!  Where  she  owned  to  so  much  culpability, 
there  surely  must  have  been  the  entire  measure  of 
guilt  I 

For  the  time  being,  he  forgot  Bienville,  in  order 
to  review  the  conversation  of  the  last  half-hour. 
Diane  had  not  carried  herself  like  a  woman  who  had 
nothing  with  which  to  reproach  herself;  and  that  a 
woman  should  be  obliged  to  reproach  herself  at  all 
was  a  humiliation  to  her  womanhood.  In  the 
midst  of  this  gross  world,  where  the  man's  soul 
naturally  became  stained  and  coarsened,  hers 
should  retain  the  celestial  beauty  with  which  it  came 
forth  from  God.  That,  in  his  opinion,  was  her  duty; 
diat  was  her  instinct;  that  was  the  object  with  which 
she  had  been  placed  on  earth.  A  woman  who  was 
no  better  than  a  man  was  an  error  on  the  part  of 
nature;  and  Diane— oh,  the  pity  of  it!— had  put  her- 
self down  on  the  man's  level  with  a  naivete  which 
showed  her  unconscious  of  ever  having  been  higher 
up.  She  had  confessed  to  weaknesses,  as  though 
Jie  were  of  no  finer  clay  than  himself,  and  spoke 
174 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

of  being  penitent,  when  the  tragedy  lay  in  the 
fact  that  a  woman  should  have  anything  to  re- 
pent of. 

The  minutes  went  by,  but  he  sat  rigid,  with  hands 
cimched  before  him,  and  eyes  fixed  in  a  kind  of 
hypnotic  stare  on  the  cluster  of  lights,  taking  no 
account  of  time  or  place.  Throughout  the  house 
there  was  the  stillness  of  midnight,  broken  only  by 
the  rumble  of  a  carriage  or  the  clatter  of  a  motor 
m  the  street.  The  silence  was  the  more  ghostly 
owing  to  the  circumstance  that  throughout  the 
empty  rooms  lights  were  still  flaring  uselessly,  wel- 
commg  his  return.  Presently  there  came  a  sound- 
faint,  soft,  swift,  like  the  rustle  of  wings,  or  a  weird 
spirit  footfall.  Though  it  was  scarcely  aud'ble,  it 
was  certain  that  something  was  astir. 

With  a  start  Derek  came  back  from  the  con- 
templation of  his  intolerable  pain  to  the  world  of 
common  happenings.  He  must  see  what  could  be 
movmg  at  this  unaccustomed  hour;  but  he  had 
barely  risen  in  his  place  when  he  was  disturbed  by 
still  another  sound,  this  time  louder  and  heavier, 
and  characterized  by  a  certain  brusque  finality! 
It  was  the  closing  of  a  door;  it  was  the  closing  of 
the  large,  ponderous  street-door.  Some  one  had 
left  the  house. 

In  a  dozen  strides  he  was  out  in  the  hall  and  on 
the  stairway.    There,  on  the  landing,  where  an  hour 
or  two  ago  he  had  turned  to  look  down  upon  Diane. 
•75 


THE      INNER      SHRINB 

stood  Dorothea  in  her  night-dress — a  little  white 

figure,  scared  and  trembling. 
"Oh,  father,  Diane  has  gone  awayl" 
For  some  seconds  he  stared  at  her  blankly,  li!:e 

a  man  who  puzzles  over  something  in  a  strange 

language.    When  he  spoke,  at  last,  his  voice  came 

with  a  forced  harshness,  from  which  the  girl  shrank 

back,  more  terrified  than  before: 
"She  was  quite  right  to  go.    You  run  back  t» 

bed." 


iL^i 


XII 

FROM  the  shelter  of  the  little  French  hostelry 
in  University  Place,  Diane  wrote,  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  to  Miss  Lucilla  van  Tromp,  tell- 
ing her  as  briefly  and  discreetly  as  possible  what 
had  occurred.  While  withholding  names  and  sup- 
pressing the  detail  which  dealt  with  the  manner  of 
her  husband's  death,  she  spoke  with  her  charac- 
teristic frankness,  stating  her  case  plainly,  '''hough 
she  denied  the  main  charge,  she  repeatec  r  le  ad- 
missions Derek  haa  found  so  fatol,  and  accepted 
her  share  of  all  responsibility. 

"  Mr.  Pruyn  is  not  to  blame,"  she  wrote.  "  From 
many  points  of  view  lie  is  as  much  the  victim  of 
circumstances  as  I  I  have  to  acknowledge 

myself  in  fault;  and  et,  if  I  were  more  so,  my 
problem  would  be  easier  to  solve.  There  are  condi- 
tions in  which  it  is  scarcely  less  difficult  to  discern 
the  false  from  the  true  than  it  is  to  separate  the  foul 
current  from  the  pure,  after  their  streams  have 
run  together;  and  I  cannot  reproach  Mr.  Pruyn  if, 
looking  only  on  the  mingled  tides,  he  does  not  see 
'77 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

that  they  flow  from  dissimilar  sources.  Though  I 
left  his  house  abruptly,  it  was  not  because  he  drove 
me  forth;  it  was  rather  because  I  feel  that,  until  I 
have  regained  some  measure  of  his  respect,  I  cannot 
be  worthy  in  his  eyes — nor  in  my  own — to  be  under 
Mie  roof  with  his  daughter." 

To  Miss  Lucilla,  in  her  ignorance  of  the  world. 
It  seemed,  as  she  read  on,  as  if  the  foundations  of 
the  great  deep  had  been  broken  up  and  the  windowi 
of  heaven  opened.  That  such  things  happened  in 
romances,  she  had  read;  that  they  were  not  unknown 
in  real  life,  even  in  New  York,  she  had  heard  it 
whispered;  but  that  they  should  crop  up  in  her  own 
immediate  circle  was  not  less  wonderful  than  if 
the  night-blooming  cereus  had  suddenly  burst  into 
flower  in  her  strip  of  garden.  Miss  Lucilla  jwned 
to  being  shocked,  to  being  grieved,  to  being  puzzled, 
to  being  stunned;  but  she  could  not  deny  the  thrill 
of  excitement  at  being  caught  up  into  the  whirl  of  a 
real  love-affair. 

When  the  first  of  the  morning's  duties  in  the  sick- 
room were  over  she  waylaid  Mrs.  Eveleth  in  a  con- 
venient spot  and  told  her  tale.  She  did  not  read 
the  letter  aloud,  finding  its  phraseology  at  times 
too  blunt;  but,  with  tliose  softening  circumlocu- 
tions of  which  good  women  have  the  secret,  she 
conveyed  the  facts.  There  was  but  one  short  pas^' 
sage  which  she  quoted  just  as  Diane  had  written  it; 
178 


THE      INNER      S  .[  R  I  N  E 

"'I  am  sure  my  mother-in-law  will  stand  by  me 
«nd  bear  me  out.  She  alone  knows  the  sort  of  life 
I  led  with  her  son,  and  I  am  convinced  that  she  wiU 
see  justice  done  me.'" 

Mrs.  Eveleth  listened  silently,  with  the  still  look 
of  pam  that  belongs  to  those  growing  old  in  the 
expectation  of  misfortune. 

"I've  been  afraid  something  would  happen," 
was  her  only  comment. 

"But  surely,  dear  Mrs.  Eveleth,  you  don't  think 
any  of  it  can  be  true!" 

The  elder  woman  began  moving  toward  the 
door. 

"So  many  things  have  been  true,  dear,  that  I 
hoped  were  not!" 

This  answer,  given  from  tlie  threshold,  left  Misi 
Lucilla   not   more    aghast   than   disappointed.     It 
brought  mto  the  romance  features  wliich  no  single 
woman  can  afford  to  contemplate.    She  would  have 
entered  mn  the  affairs  of  a  wronged  heroine  with 
enthusiastic  interest;  but  what  was  to  be  done  with 
Aose  of  a  possibly  guilty  one  ?     She  was  so  ready 
tor  the  unexpected  that  as  she  stood  at  a  back  win- 
dow, looking  into  the  garden,  it  was  almost  a  sur- 
prise not  to  find  the  night-blooming  cereus  really 
lifting  Its  exotic  head  among  the  stout  spring  shoots 
of  die  peonies.     With  the  vague  feeling  that  the 
Park  might  prove  more  fruitful  ground  for  the 
>79 


it 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

phenomenon,  she  moved  to  a  front  window,  where 
f'e  was  not  long  unrewarded. 

If  it  was  not  the  night-blooming  cereus  that  drove 
up  in  the  handsome,  open  automobile,  turning  into 
the   Park,   it  was   something  equally  portentous; 
for  Mrs.   Bayford  had  already  played  a  part  in 
Diane's  drama,  and  was  now,  presumably,  about  to 
enter  on  the  scene  again.     Miss  Lucilla  drew  back, 
so  as  to  be  out  of  sight,  while  keeping  her  visitors  in 
view.     For  a  minute  she  hoped  that  Marion  Grim- 
ston  herself  might  be  minded  to  make  her  a  call,  for 
she  liked  the  handsome  girl,  whose  outspoken  pro- 
tests against  the  shams  of  her  life  agreed  with  her 
own  more  gentle  horror  of  pretension.     Marion, 
wreathed  in  veils,  was,  however,  at  the  steering- 
wheel,  and,  as  she  guided  the  huge  machine  to  the 
curbstone,   showed   no   symptoms   of  wishing   to 
alight.     Beside  her  was  Reggie  Bradford,  a  large, 
fat  youth,  whose  big,  good-natured  laugh  almost 
called  back  echoes  from  the  surrounding  houses. 
As  the  car  stopped  he  lumbered  down    from   his 
perch  and  helped  Mrs.  Bayford  to  descend.     When 
he  had  clambered  back  to  his  place  again  the  great 
vehicle  rolled  on.     It  was  plain  now  to  Miss  Lucilla 
that  a  new  act  of  the  piece  was  about  to  begin,  and 
she  hurried  back  to  the  library  in  order  to  be  in  her 
place  before  the  rising  of  the  curtain. 

For  Miss  Lucilla's  callers  there  was  always  an 
immediate  subject  of  conversarion  which  had  to  be 
i8o 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

exhausted  before  any  other  topic  could  be  touched 
upon;  and  Mrs.  Bayford  tackled  it  at  once,  asking 
the  questions  and  answering  them  herself,  so  as  to 
get  it  out  of  the  way. 

"Well,  how  is  Regina?  Very  much  the  same, 
of  course.  I  don't  suppose  you'll  see  any  change 
m  her  now,  until  it's  for  the  worse.  Poor  thingi 
Mie  could  almost  wish,  in  her  own  interests,  that  our 
Heavenly  Father  would  think  fit  to  take  her  to  Him- 
self.  Now,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  something 
serious."  * 

Mrs.  Bayford  made  herself  comfortable  in  a  deep, 
low  chair,  with  her  feet  on  a  footstool. 

"I  suppose  you've  never  guessed,"  she  asked,  at 
last,  "why  Marion  has  been  with  me  all  this  time  ?" 

"I  did  guess,"  Miss  Lucilla  admitted,  with  a 
faint  blush,  "but  I  don't  know  that  I  guessed  right" 

"I  expect  you  did.  No  one  could  see  as  much 
of  her  as  you've  done  without  knowing  she  had  a 
love-afFair." 

"That's  what  I  thought." 
^^  "It's  been  a  great  trial,"  Mrs.  Bayford  sighed, 
"and  it  isn't  over  yet.    In  fact,  I  don't  know  but 
what  it's  only  just  beginning." 
Wi.s.n't  he— desirable  r 

"Oh  yes;  veiy  much  so,  and  is  so  still.  It  wasn't 
that.  He  was  all  that  any  one  could  wish— old 
family,  position,  title,  good  looks,  everything." 

"But  if  Marion  liked  him,  and  he  liked  her—?" 
i8i 


% 


1: 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

"  I  could  explain  it  to  you  better  if  you  knew 
more  about  men." 

"I  do  know  a— a  little,"  Miss  Lucilla  ventured 
to  assert,  shyly. 

"There  is  a  case  in  which  a  little  is  not  enough. 
You've  got  to  understand  a  man's  capacity  for  lov- 
ing one  woman  and  being  fascinated  by  another. 
I  think  they  call  it  double  consciousness." 

"I  don't  think  it's  very  honorable,"  Miss  Lucilla 
declared,  in  disapproval. 

"A  man  doesn't  stop  to  think  of  honor,  my  dear, 
when  he's  in  a  grand  passion.  Bienville  has  honor 
written  in  his  very  countenance,  but  this  was  an 
occasion  when  he  couldn't  get  it  into  play.  It  was 
perfectly  tragic.  He  had  already  spoken  to  Robert 
Grimston  in  the  manliest  way — told  all  about  him- 
self— found  out  how  much  Marion  would  have  as 
her  Jot — and  got  permission  to  pay  her  his  ad- 
dresses— when  all  came  to  nothing  because  of 
another  woman." 

With  this  as  an  introduction  it  was  natural  that 
Mrs.  Bayford  should  go  on  to  repeat  the  oft-told 
tale  in  its  entirety,  lending  it  a  light  that  no  one  had 
given  to  it  yet.  With  the  information  she  already 
possessed  from  Diane's  letter  it  was  impoj^^'ble  for 
Lucilla  not  to  recognize  all  the  characters  as  readily 
«s  Derek  Pruyn  had  done,  while  she  had  the  ad- 
Tantage  ovei  him  of  knowing  Marion  Grimston's 
pUcc  in  the  action.  It  was  a  dreadful  stoiy,  and 
183 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  M  E 

if  Miss  Lucilla  was  not  mort  ,-  ofoundly  shocked 
It  was  because  Mrs.  Bayford,  \  overshooting  the 
mark,  rendered  it  incredible.  None  the  less  she 
agreed  with  Mrs.  Bayford  on  the  main  point  she 
had  come  to  urge,  that  Diane,  on  one  side,  and 
Manon  and  Bienville,  on  the  other,  should  be  kept, 
if  possible,  from  meeting. 

"Not  that  I  think,"  Mrs.  Bayford  went  on,  "that 
Raoul— that's  his  name— would  ever  take  up  with 
her  again.  Still,  you  never  can  tell;  I've  seen  such 
cases.  A  fire  will  often  blaze  up  when  you  think 
It's  out.  And  now  that  everything  is  going  so 
smoothly  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  to  throw  any 
obstacle  in  the  way." 

"Everything  is  going  smoothly,  then.?  I'm 
glad  of  that,  for  Marion's  sake." 

"Yes;  it's  practically  a  settled  thing.  When  it 
seemed  likely  that  he  would  return  to  France  by 
way  of  New  York,  Robert  Grimston  wrote  me  t  > 
say  that  if  anything  happened  it  would  have  his 
full  consent.  Things  move  rapidly  m  Paris,  and 
the  whole  episode  is  as  much  a  pare  of  the  past  as 
ast  year's  styles.  Then,  too,  evetybody  there 
knows  now  that  Raoul  ddn't  kill  George  Eve- 
leth;  and,  of  course,  that  removes  a  certain  unpleas- 
ant thought  that  some  people  might  have  about 
him." 

"Have  you  seen  him  yetf" 
"I  heard  from  him  this  morning.     He  asked  if 
'83 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

he  could  call  on  Marion  and  me  this  afternoon. 
You  can  guess  what  was  my  reply." 

The  nature  of  this  having  been  made  clear, 
Mrs.  Bayford  went  on  to  express  her  fears  as  to  die 
complications  which  might  arise  from  the  chance 
meeting  of  Bienville  and  Derek  on  the  steamer,  of 
which  the  former  had  given  her  information  in  his 
note.  Nothing  would  be  more  natural  now  than 
for  Derek  to  invite  Marion  and  Bienville  to  dinner; 
and  there  would  be  Diane  I 

"I  think  I  can  relieve  your  mind  on  that  point," 
Miss  Lucilla  said,  tiying  to  choose  her  words 
cautiously.  "There  would  be  no  danger  of  their 
meeting  Mrs.  Eveleth  just  now,  as  she  has  left 
Dorothea  for  the  present." 

There  was  so  much  satisfaction  to  Mrs.  Bayford 
in  knowing  that,  as  far  as  Diane  was  concerned,  the 
coast  was  comparatively  clear,  that  she  gathered 
up  her  skirts  and  departefl.  After  she  had  gone. 
Miss  Lucilla's  sense  of  being  the  pivot  of  a  romantic 
plot  was  heightened  by  the  appearance  of  Diane. 
She  came  in  with  her  usual  air  of  confidence  in  her 
ability  to  meet  the  world,  and  if  her  pale  face  showed 
traces  of  tears  and  sleeplessness,  its  expression  was, 
if  anything,  more  courageous.  Had  it  not  been  for 
this  br.ive  show  Miss  Lucilla  would  have  wanted 
to  embrace  her  and  hold  her  hands,  but,  as  it  was, 
she  could  only  retire  shyly  into  herself,  as  in  the  pres- 
ence of  one  too  strong  to  need  the  support  of  friends. 
184 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  T  ,sin 

"No;  don't  call  my  mother-in-law  yet,"  Diane 
pleaded,  as  Miss  LuciUa  was  about  to  touch  a  bell 
I  want  to  talk  to  you  firsts  and  tell  you  things  I 
couldn't  say  m  writing." 

Then  the  stoiy  was  told  again,  and  from  still 
another  po.nt  of  view.  Once  more  Diane  acknowl- 
edged the  weaknesses  of  conduct  she  had  con- 
fessed already,  but  Miss  LuciUa  was  a  woman  and 
understood  her  speech. 

"I  knew  you'd  believe  in  me."  Diane  said,  half 
soLbmg,  as  she  ended  her  tale.  "I  knev  ^u'd  un- 
derstand that  one  can  be  a  foolish  won..n  without 
having  been  a  wicked  one.     Mr.  Pruyn  would  not 

«crf.V  ''"''  °"  '"*'  '^^^  '"'<'  *o"ght  of  that." 
bhall  I  go  and  tell  him  f 

"No;  it's  too  late.  The  wrong  that's  been  done 
needs  a  more  radical  remedy  than  you  or  I  could 
bring  to  It.  Bienville  has  lied,  and  I  must  force 
him  to  retract.     Nothing  else  can  help  me." 

To  poor  Miss  Lucilla  this  was  a  new  and  alarm- 
ing feature  in  the  situation.  If  it  was  so,  then 
Manon  Gnmston  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  marry 
T;  L  !f"^  '^'"'  right-and  she  must  be  right 
-Mrs.  Bayford  was  mistakenly  urging  on  a  match 
that  would  bring  unhappiness  to  her  niece.  This 
complication  was  almost  more  than  Miss  Lucilla's 
quietly  working  intellect  could  seize,  and  she  fol- 
iowed  Diane's  succeeding  words  with  but  a  wander- 
ing attention. 

i8s 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

She  understood,  however,  that,  next  to  being 
justified  by  Bienville,  Diane  attached  importance 
to  the  aid  she  expected  from  Mrs.  Eveleth.  Hers 
was  the  only  living  voice  that  could  testify  to  the 
happy  relations  always  existing  between  her  son 
and  his  wife.  She  could  tell,  and  would  tell,  that 
George  had  fallen  as  the  champion  of  Diane's 
honor,  and  not  as  tVje  victim  of  her  baseness.  If 
he  died  it  was  because  he  believed  in  her,  not  be- 
cause he  was  seeking  the  readiest  refuge  from  their 
common  life.  Diane  would  explain  all  to  Mrs. 
Eveleth,  to  whose  loyalty  she  could  trust,  and  on 
whose  love  she  could  depend. 

"I'll  go  and  find  her,"  Miss  Lucilla  said,  rising. 
"You'd  like  to  see  her  alone?" 

"No;  I'd  rather  you  were  present.  My  troubles 
have  got  beyond  the  stage  of  privacy.  It's  best 
that  those  who  cire  for  me  should  hear  what  can 
be  said  in  my  defence." 

Miss  Lucilla  went,  and  returned.  A  few  min- 
utes later  Mrs.  Eveleth  could  be  heard  coming 
slowly  down  the  stairs.  But  before  she  had  time 
to  enter  the  room  Derek  Pruyn,  using  the  privilege 
of  a  relative,  walked  in  without  announcement. 


XIII 

IF  the  morning  had  brought  surprises  to  Miss 
Lualla  van  Tromp,  it  had  not  denied  them  to 
the  Marquis  de  Bienville.  They  were  all  the  more 
astonislung  in  that  they  came  out  of  a  sky  that  was 
relanvely  clear.  As  he  stood  in  his  dressing-gown, 
with  a  cigarette  between  his  fingers,  at  one  of  the 
upper  windows  of  his  tall,  towerlike  hotel,  he  would 
have  said  that  his  life  at  the  moment  resembled  the 
blue  dome  above  him,  from  which,  after  a  cloudy 
dawn  and  dull  early  morning,  the  last  fleecy  drifts 
were  being  blown  away. 

There  were  many  circumstances  that  combined 
just  now  to  make  him  glad  of  being  Raoul  de  Laval, 
Marquis  de  Bienville.  The  mere  material  comfort 
of  modern  hotel  luxury  had  a  certain  joyous  novelty 
after  nearly  two  years  spent  amid  the  unprofitable 
splendors  of  the  tropical  forest.  True.  New  York 
was  not  Paris;  but  it  was  an  excellent  distributing 
centre  for  Parisian  commodities  and  news,  and 
would  do  very  well  for  the  work  he  had  immediate- 
ly in  hand.  So  far,  all  promised  hopefully.  His 
valet  had  joined  him  from  France,  with  whatever 
187 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

he  could  wish  in  the  way  of  wardrobe;  and  Mrs. 
Bayford's  reply  to  his  note  contained  much  informa- 
tion beyond  what  was  actually  written  dovm  in 
words.  Moreover,  the  statement  he  hail  found 
awaiting  him  from  the  Credit  Lyonnais  revealed  the 
fact  that,  owing  to  the  two  years  in  which  he  had 
little  or  no  need  to  spend  money,  he  could  now  live 
with  handsome  extravagance  until  after  he  married 
Miss  Grimston.  He  might  even  pay  the  more 
pressmg  of  his  debts,  though  that  possibility  pre- 
sented itself  in  the  light  of  a  work  of  supererogation, 
seeing  that  in  so  short  a  time  he  should  be  able  to 
pay  them  all. 

Then  would  begin  a  new  era  in  his  life.  On  that 
point  he  was  quite  determined.  At  thirty-two  years 
of  age  it  was  high  time  to  think  of  being  something 
better  in  the  world  than  a  mere  man-beauty.  His 
experience  with  Persigny  had  shown  that  he  was 
capable  of  something  worthier  than  dalliance,  as  his 
fathers  had  been  before  him. 

He  did  not  precisely  blame  himself  for  short- 
comings in  the  past,  since,  according  to  French 
ideas,  he  had  not  enough  money  on  which  to  be 
useful,  while  his  social  position  precluded  work. 
He  could  not  serve  his  country  for  fear  of  serving 
the  republic,  nor  live  on  his  estates,  because  Bien- 
ville was  too  expensive  to  keep  up.  However  well- 
meaning  his  nature,  there  had  been  almost  nothing 
open  to  him  but  the  career  of  the  idle,  handsome, 
i88 


T  H  ^  I  itIiJ_R  S  H  R  I  N  S 
high-bom  youth  with  money  enough  to  pay  for 
the  luxuries  ofl.fe.  whil.  ds  name  secured  credit 
tor  Its  necessities. 

With  his  looks  and  his  address  it  would  have 
been  easy  to  find  a  wife  who,  by  meeting  his  finan- 
cial need  would  have  facilitated  his  path  in  virtue- 
but  on  this  point  he  was  fastidious.     Rather  oer- 

phase  of  die  French  social  mind  which,  while  still 
acknowledging  the  supremacy  of  the  family  in 
matnmonia  affairs,  insists  on  some  freedom  of 
personal  selection.  That  his  future  wife  should 
have  enough  money  to  make  her  a  worthy  chatelaine 
of  Bienville,  as  well  as  to  meet  the  subsidiary  ex- 
penses the  position  implied,  was  a  foregone  con- 
dusionj  but  It  was  equally  a  matter  beyond  dispute 
Aat  she  should  be  some  one  whom  he  could  love 

umil  f  "°'  t""  •  "^'X  ~™''i"-''on  of  essentials 
until  he  met  Marion  Grimston,  and  the  hand  he 
vras  thereupon  prepared  to  offer  her  was  not  wholly 
empty  of  his  heart.  ^ 

In  her  he  saw  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  in- 
trepid maiden  who  seems  to  dare  a  man  to  come 
and  master  her.  That  she  should  be  the  daughter 
-^°''««  Grimston.  with  his  commercial  prim- 
ness, and  Mrs.  Grimston,  with  her  pretentious  snob- 
beiy,  was  a  mystery  he  made  no  attempt  to  solve 
It  was  enough  for  him  that  this  proud  creature 
was  in  the  world,  especially  as  her  bearing  toward 


i' 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

him  inspired  the  hope  that  he  might  win  her.  It 
was  a  pity  that  he  should  have  turned  aside  from 
such  high  endeavor  in  a  foolish  dash  to  make 
himself  the  Hippomenes  of  Diane  Eveleth's  Ata- 
lanta.  Putting  litde  heart  into  the  latter  contest 
he  would  have  suffered  little  mortification  from 
defeat,  had  it  not  been  that  tlie  high  spirits  of  the 
pursued  lady  invited  the  world  to  come  and  laugh 
with  her  at  his  expense. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Afarquis  de  Bienville,  in  an 
uncontrollal)le  access  of  wounded  vanity,  had  thrown 
his  traditions  of  honor  to  the  winds,  and  lied.  It 
was  not  such  a  lie  as  could  be  tolfl— and  forgotten; 
for  there  were  too  many  people  eager  to  believe  and 
repeat  it.  Within  twenty-four  hours  he  found  him- 
self far.ious,  al!  llie  way  from  tlie  Pare  Monceau  to 
the  rue  dc  Vaicnnes.  After  his  conscience  had 
given  him  a  sleepless  night  he  got  up  to  see  that 
any  modification  of  his  statement  meant  retraction. 
Retraction  was  out  of  the  question,  in  that  it  in- 
volved the  loss  of  his  reputation  among  men.  He 
was  caught  in  a  trap.  He  must  lie  and  maintair 
his  place,  or  he  must  confess  and  go  out  of  society 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that  he  took  his  predica 
ment  lightly,  or  that  he  made  his  choice  withoui 
pangs  of  stif-pity  at  the  cruel  necessity.  It  was  his 
honor,  or  hers!  and  if  only  the  one  or  tlie  other 
could  be  saved,  it  must  be  his.  So  he  saved  it — 
i»ccording  to  hi.s  lights.  He  saved  it  by  being  very 
iqo 


T_H^  INNER  SHRINB 
bold  in  his  statements  by  day,  and  heaping  ignominy 
on  himself  during  the  black  hours  of  slltss^sT 
He  found,  however,  that  the  process  paid;  for  bold 
ness  engendered  a  son  of  Litious'  he  icf  whtt 
pa^lyzed  the  tendency  to  self-upbraiding  undlt 

Aat  gray  dawn  when  he  stood  up  before  Geor« 
Eveleth  m  a  corner  of  the  Pre  cLlan.  He  hS 
not  the  moral  force  to  confess  himself  a  peij    er  „ 

t    A   °^.  ^f"''  •'"'  ^^  <^°""  ^tand  ready  to  take 
Ae  bullets  m  his  breast.     In  going  to  the  eLounte 
he  had  no  mtent.on  of  doing  othe^ise.     He  wouM 
not  atone  to  an  injured  woman  by  setting  her  right 

iH;Thifiir^"^^^--^^-^'^^-^e 

It  was  a  satisfaction  now  to  know,  as  he  was  as- 
sured by  letters,  that  the  incident  was  pract  ca  Iv 
forgotten  and  that  Diane  Eveletl,  had  disappeared 
He  himself  found  ,t  easier  than  it  used  to  be  to  d's 
nnss  the  subject  from  his  mind;  and  if  he  recall  d 
It  at  times  ,t  was  gcnerally_as  it  had  been  on  ship- 

I^IT  V  ''"'  ^"'^  ^'''"■^  «-<=  of  confidentfal 
anecdotes  He  was  thinking,  however,  of  dropping 
Ae  storv  from  h,s  repertoire,  for  he  had  morc'^Lf 
once  remarked  that  its  effect  was  siiahtly  sinister 

last  tvyenty-four  hours  op  the  steamer.  Derek  ruv^ 
avoided  him,  while  he  on  his  part  had  felt  a  cui^^ 


191 


THE      INNER 


S  H  R  I  N  £ 


impulse  to  slink  out  of  sight,  wh"  h  could  onlj  be 
explained  by  the  supposition  that  a  often  happens 
on  long  voyages,  they  had  seen  nx:  f-uch  of  each 
other. 

Finding  that  he  had  let  his  cigarette  go  out,  he 
threw  it  away,  and  turned  from  the  window  tc  com- 
plete his  toilet.  As  he  did  so  his  valet  entered  with 
a  card,  stating  that  the  gentleman  who  had  sent  it 
in  was  waiting  in  the  hall  outside. 

"Ask  him  to  come  in,''  he  said,  briefly,  when  he 
had  read  the  name.  He  was  scarcely  surprised, 
for  Prayn  had  spoken  more  than  once  of  showing 
him  some  civilities  when  they  reached  New  York, 
and  putting  him  up  at  one  or  two  convenient  clubs. 
"My  dear  sir,"  he  cried,  going  forward  with 
outstretched  hand;  but  the  words  died  on  his  lips 
as  Derek  pushed  his  way  in  brusquely,  without 
greeting. 

Again  the  young  nan  attempted  the  ceremonious 
by  apologizing  for  the  informality  of  h.h  surround- 
ings and  the  state  of  his  dress;  out  again  he  faltered 
before  the  haggard  glare  in  Derek's  eyes. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  Pruyn  said,  abruptly. 
Bienville  made  a  gesture  of  mingled  politenest 
and  astonishment. 

"Certainly;  but  shall  we  not  sit  down  while  we 
do  it  ?  Will  you  smoke  ?  Here  are  cigarettes,  but 
you  probably  prefer  a  cigar." 

Educated  in  England,  like  many  young  French- 
192 


TH_E_  I  N  N  E  R      S  TT  If   r  kt  « 


men  of  the 


'  classes. 


English 


Bienville 
uuentiy  ana  with  little  accent. 

'•I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  Derek  said  again.  He 
took  no  nofce  of  the  pK,frered  seat,  and  they  re- 
ma  ned  standing,  as  they  were,  with  the  round 
table,  bestrewn  with  letters,  betNveen  them.  "You 
remember,  Derek  continued,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty- you  remember  the  story  you  told  me  on 
the  voyage— about  a  woman  f 

Bienville  nodded.  He  had  a  sudden  presenti- 
ment  of  what  was  coming. 

for  South  Amenca,  three  months  ago,  I  asked  that 
woman  to  be  my  wife." 

"In  that  case,"  Bienville  said,  promptly,  and 
w,4  a  tranquiUity  he  did  not  feel,  "I  withdraw  my 
statements.  ^ 

"Withdrawal  isn't  enough.  You  must  tell  me 
they  were  not  true." 

Bienville  remained  silent  for  a  minute.  He  wai 
beginning  to  realize  the  firmness  of  the  ground  he 
stood  on.  His  instinct  for  self-preservation  wat 
strong,  and  he  had  confidence  in  his  dexterous  use 
or  the  necessary  weapons. 

"You  must  give  me  time  to  reflect  on  that."  he 
•aid,  after  a  pause. 

"Why  do  you  need  time?  If  the  thing  isn't 
true,  you've  only  got  to  say  .so  " 


It's  not  quite  so  easy  as  tliat.    You 


193 


can't  cut 


Mm 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

eyeiy  difficulty  with  a  sword,  as  they  did  the  Gor- 
dian  knot.  One  may  go  far  in  defence  of  a  woman's 
honor,  but  there  are  boundaries  which  even  a  gal- 
lant man  cannot  pass;  and,  before  I  speak,  I  mu»* 
see  where  they  lie." 

"I  want   the  truth.     I   want  no   defence  of  a 
woman's  honor — " 

"Ah,  but  I  do.    That's  the  difference." 
"Damn  your  difference!    You  didn't  think  much 
of  a  woman's  honor  when  you  began  your  infernal 
tales." 
''Did  you,  when  you  let  me  go  on  ?" 
"No.     That's  where  I  share  your  crime.    That's 
all  that  keeps  me  from  striking  you  now." 

"I  let  that  pass.  I  know  how  you  feel.  I  know 
just  how  hard  it  is  for  you.  I've  been  in  something 
like  your  situation  myself.  No  man  can  have  much 
to  do  with  a  woman  without  being  put  there  in  one 
way  if  not  another.  It's  because  I  do  understand 
you  that  I  share  your  pain — and  support  your  in- 
sults." 

The  tremor  in  his  voice,  coupled  with  the  dignity 

of  his  bearing,  carried  a  certain  degree  of  conviction 

so  that  when  Derek  spoke  again  it  was  less  fiercely 

'Then  I  understand  you  to  confirm  what  you 

told  me  on  board  ship  ?" 

'On  the  contrary;   you  understand  me  to  take 
it  back.     Wliy  shouldn't  that  be  enough  for  you— 
without  asking  further  questions  ?" 
'94 


THE      INNER      S  H  R   r  ^  ^ 

"Precisely;  and  yet,  wouldn't  it  be  wise,  under 

te.HSre\?tS^"°''°^^>'°-''-'''«<>f 
"I  can  quite  see  that  it  might  strike  you  in  that 
way;  but  you'll  pardon  n,e.  I  know,  if  I^see  t  f^m 
anoAer  po.nt  of  view.  No  man  in  :>,y  situado" 
would  consider  it  a  matter  of  telling  you  the  1™* 
so  much  as  of  coming  to  the  aid  o^a  lady  whot' 

S:L"T  ^'-    'T'^   ""^•"«'"g'^  ^perille'd      m; 
supreme  duty  is  there;  and  I'm  willing  to  do  it  I 

everything   I   have   ever   uttered    tliat   could    t*.II 
against  her.    Can  you  ask  me  to  do  mo"!" 
res;   1  can  ask  you  to  deny  it." 

.<S"''  -H'^'  "^'^""^y  ^  '°r'n  °f  denial.?" 

rso;  It  s  a  form  of  affirmation." 

That  s  because  you  choose  to  take  it  so.     It's 

because  you  prefer  to  go  behind  my  words,  and 

ascribe  to  me  motives  which,  for  all^u  W    I 

do  not  possess."  '       '-"ow,  1 

"I've  nothing  to  do  with  your  motives;  my  aim 
»s  to  get  at  the  trutli."  ^ 

"Since  you  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  motives  " 

Bienvdie  said,  with  a  slight  lifting  of  die  Ss 

you'll  permit  me,  I  am  sure.  ■    ■  ■-  ' 


195 


be  equally  indif- 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

ferent  to  your  aims.  I  tell  yoa  what  I  am  prepared 
to  do;  but  what  is  it  to  me  whether  you  are  satis- 
fied or  not  ?  I  am  sorry  to — to^inconvenience  the 
lady;   but  as  for  you — I" 

With  a  snap  of  the  fingers  he  turned  and  strolled 
to  the  window,  where  he  stood,  looking  out,  with 
his  back  toward  his  guest.  It  was  significant  of 
their  tension  of  feeling  and  concentration  of  mind 
that  both  gesture  and  attitude  went  unnoted  by 
both.  Derek  remained  silent  and  motionless,  his 
slower  mind  tiying  to  catch  up  with  the  French- 
man's nimble  adroitness.  He  had  not  yet  done 
so  when  Bienville  turned  and  spoke  again. 

"Why  should  we  quarrel?  What  should  we 
gain  by  doing  that?  You  and  I  are  two  men  of 
the  world,  to  whom  human  nature  is  as  an  open 
book.  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do  ?  What  do 
you  expect  me  to  say  ?  What  more  did  you  thin': 
to  call  forth  from  me  when  you  came  here  this 
morning  ?  Do  me  justice.  Am  I  not  going  as  far 
as  a  man  can  go  when  I  say  that  I  blot  out  of  my 
memory  the  cursed  evenings  you  and  I  spent  to- 
gether in  cursed  talk?  That  doesn't  cover  the 
ground,  you  think;  but  would  any  other  form  of 
words  cover  it  any  better  ?  Would  you  believe  me 
the  more,  whatever  set  of  speeches  I  might  adopt  ? 
Would  you  not  always  have  in  the  back  of  your 
mind  your  expressive  English  phrase,  that  I  was 
^ng  like  a  gentleman  ?  You  know  best  what  you 
196 


THE      INNER      S  H  if   r  ^^ 

^e  that  we  have  arrived  at  a  point  where  the 

tes  that  IS  spoken  in  words  on  eith  r  side,  the 

better  it  will  be  for  us  all  }" 
When  he  had  finished.  Bienville  turned  again 

-ward  the  window,  leaning  his  head  wearily  against 
Ae  frame.  Derek  stood  a  minute  longer  iatching 
him.  Then,  as  if  accepting  the  assertion  that  th^re 
was  nothing  more  that  could  be  said,  he  went  qui«- 
ly.  with  bent  head,  from  the  room.  ^ 

r^n"^-"""'  1°''"  '"  "^^  "'""  ''"'■°«  J^^  became  fully 
conscious  that,  among  the  confused,  strangled  crie^ 
of  pam  withm  him.  that  which  was  loudest  and 
most  imploring  was  a  wailing  self-reproach.  It  was 
a  self-reproach  with  a  strain  of  pleading  in  it.  akin 
^  that  with  which  a  mother  blames  hefself  for  the 
fellings  of  her  son.  seizing  on  any  one  else's  wrong 

Diane  himselfl  He  had  pried  into  her  past,  and  laid 
bare  her  sms,  and  stripped  her  life  of  that  cover- 
ing of  secrecy  which  no  human  existence  could  do 
without,  least  of  all  his  own 

He  walked  on  with  bowed  head,  his  eyes  blind 
to  the  May  sunshme.  his  ears  deaf  to  the  city's  joy- 
ous, energetic  uproar,  his  mind  closed  to  die  fact 
*at  important  business  affairs  were  awaitine  his 
attention.  His  feet  strayed  toward  Gramerp ark 
directed  not  so  much  by  volition  as  by  the  priman; 
«97 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

man-instinct  to  be  near  some  sweet,  sympathetic 
woman  in  the  hour  of  pain.     Lucilia  and  he  had 

town  up  in  one  family  as  boy  and  girl  together, 
and  there  were  moments  when  he  found  near  her 
iJie  peace  he  could  get  nowhere  else  in  the  world. 

He  pushed  by  the  footman  who  admitted  him 
and  walked  straight  to  the  room  where  Lucilla  was 
generally  to  be  found.  Though  he  could  scarcely 
be  surprised  to  see  Diane  sitting  by  her,  he  stopped 
on  the  threshold,  with ,  signs  of  embarrassment, 
and  made  as  though  he  would  withdraw.  Over- 
whelmed by  the  responsibilities  of  such  a  moment. 
Miss  Lucilla  looked  appealingly  at  Diane,  who  rose. 

"Don't  go,  Mr.  Pruyn,"  she  said,  forcing  her- 
self to  show  firmness.  "You  arrive  very  oppor- 
tunely. I  have  just  asked  my  mother-in-law  to 
eome  to  my  aid  in  some  of  the  things  we  discussed 
last  night.  Won't  you  do  me  the  justice  to  hear 
her?" 

She  crossed  the  room  to  where  Mrs.  Eveleth  ap- 
peared on  the  threshold,  and,  taking  her  by  the 
hand,  led  her  to  the  chair  which  Pruyn  placed  for 
her. 

"  I'd  better  go,  Diane  dear,"  Miss  Lucilla  whis- 
pered, tremblingly. 

"Please    don't,"    Diane   insisted.     "I'd    much 
rather  have  "ou  stay.    I've  no  secrets  from  Miss 
Lucilla,"  she  added,  speaking  to  Derek.     "I  need 
a  woman  friend;  and  I've  found  one." 
198 


THE     I  NN  E  R      SHRINE 

-You  couldn't  find  a  better,"  Pruyn  murmured, 
while  Miss  Lucilla  slipped  her  arm  around  Diane's 
waist,  rather  to  steady  herself  than  to  support  her 

"Miss  Lucilla  knows  eveiything  that  you  know, 
petite  mere,"  Diane  continued,  tun.ing  to  where 
her  mother-in-law  sat,  slightly  bowed,  her  extended 
hand  resting  on  her  cane,  like  some  graceful  Sibyl. 
5>he  knows  everything  that  you  know,  and  she 
knows  one  thing  more.  She  knows  what  some 
S  "''"'"*  *^y  ^as  the  way  in  which-George 

Diane  uttered  the  last  two  words  in  a  kind  of 
sob,  and  Mrs.  Eveleth  looked  up,  stanled. 

"George-died?"  she  questioned,  slowly,  with 
a  look  of  wonder. 

Diane  nodded,  unable,  for  the  minute,  .o  speak 
But  we  know  how— he  died." 

"Mr.  Pruyn  tells  me  that  we  don't." 

"I  beg  you  .lot  to  put  it  in  that  way,"  Derek 
said,  hurriedly.  "I  repeated  only  what  was  told 
rne,  and  what  was  afterward  verified.  Do  you  not 
think  we  can  spare  Mrs.  Eveletli  wlur  must  be  so 
painful  ?" 

"There's  no  need  to  spare  me,  Mr.  Pruyn.  I 
thmk  I've  reached  the  point  to  which  old  people 
often  come-where  they  can't  feel  any  more.'' 

Oh,  mother,  don't  say  that,"  Diane  wailed, 
with  a  cixnoisly  childlike  cry.    She  had  never  be 
'99 


i 


m  j'  i 

w 


T_fI^E      INNER      SHRINE 

fort   called  Mrs.   Eveleth  mother,  and  the  word 
•ounded   strangely  in   this  room  which  had  not 
heard  it  since  Miss  Lucilla  was  a  little  girl.     "My 
mother  would  rather  know,"  she  declared,  almost 
proudly,  speaking  again  to  Pruyn,  "than  be  kept 
m  ignorance  of  something  in  which  she  could  help 
me  so  much." 
"What  is  iti"  Mrs.  Eveleth  asked,  eagerly. 
Then  Diane  told  her.     It  had  been  stated,  so 
she  said,  that  George  had  not  fallen  in  her  defence, 
but  by  his  own  hand—to  escape  her;  anc  ■:here  was 
no  one  in  the  world  but  his  own  mother  to  give  this 
monstrous   calumny   the  lie.     During  the   recital 
Mrs.   Eveleth  sat  with  clasped  hands,  but  with 
head  sinking  lower  at  each  word.     Once  she  mur- 
mured something  which  only  Miss  Lucilla  was  near 
enough  to  hear: 

"Then  that's  why  they  wouldn't  let  me  look  at 
him  in  his  coffin." 

"He  did  love  me,  didn't  he?"  Diane  cried.  "He 
was  happy  with  me,  wasn't  he,  mother  dear?  He 
understood  me,  and  upheld  me,  and  defended  me, 
whatever  I  did.  He  didn't  want  to  leave  me.  He 
knew  I  should  never  have  cared  for  the  loss  of  the 
money— that  we  could  have  faced  that  together. 
Tell  them  so,  mother;   tell  them." 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  known  her  Derek 
saw  Diane  forget  her  reserve  in  eager  pleading. 
She  stepped  forward  from  Miss  Lucilla's  embrace. 


THE      INNER      S  H  K   r  M  t, 

«anding  before  Mrs.  Eveleth  with  palms  opened 
outward.  ,„  an  attitude  of  petition.  The  older 
woman  did  not  raise  her  head  nor  speak. 

He  was  happy  with  me,"  Diane  insisted.     "I 

have  had,  but  he  was  satisfied  with  me  as  I  was,  in 
spite  of  my  imperfections.  He  was  worried  some- 
times,  especially  toward  -  toward  the   last;    but 

JearT" '   ^''"^"^    "'^"   ™^'  ^""^   ^''   "««»»" 
Still  the  mother  did  not  speak  nor  raise  her 

"T^-f '.^?  '°°^  ^  "'P  """"'^  ^"'^  ''^g^n  aga'-a 
I  AiA  'tl '  .'"''  """^  ''^'"g  ''^3'ond  our  means. 

1  didn  t  know  what  was  going  on  around  me.  I 
reproach  myself  for  that  A  wiser  woman  ^ould 
have  known;  but  I  was  young,  and  foolish,  and 
ve^.  veiy  happy  I  didn't  know  I  was  ruining 
George,  though  I'm  ready  to  take  all  the  respon! 
sibihty  for  ,t  now.  But  he  never  blamed  me,  did 
he,  mother?  never,  by  a  word,  never  by  a  look. 
Uh,  speak,  and  tell  them!" 

Her  voice  came  out  with  a  shaip  note  of  anxiety, 
m  which  there  was  an  inflection  almost  of  fear 
but  when  she  ceased  there  was  silence. 

Petite  mere,"  she  cried,  "aren't  you  going  to 
say  anything  I"  /       6     S  i" 

The  bowed  head  remained  bowed;  the  only  sign 
came  from  the  trembling  of  the  extended  hand, 
»«sting  on  the  top  of  the  stick. 

201 


m' 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 


"If  you  don't  speak,"  Diane  cried  again,  "they'll 
think  it's  because  you  don't  want  to." 

If  there  was  a  response  to  this,  it  was  when  the 
head  bent  lower. 

"Mother,"  Diane  cried,  in  alarm,  "I've  no  one 
in  the  world  to  speak  a  word  for  me  but  you.  If 
you  don't  do  it,  they'll  believe  I  drove  George  to 
his  death — they'll  say  I  was  such  a  woman  that 
he  killed  himself  rather  than  live  with  me  any 
longer." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Eveleth  raised  her  head  and  looked 
round  upon  them  all.  Then  she  staggered  to  her 
feet. 

"Take  me  away!"  she  said,  in  a  dead  voice,  to 
Lucilla  van  Tromp.  "Help  me!  Take  me  awayl 
I  can't  bear  any  more!"  Leaning  on  Miss  Lucilla's 
arm,  she  advanced  a  step  and  paused  before  Diane, 
who  stood  wide-eyed,  and  awe-struck  rather  than 
amazed,  at  the  magnitude  of  this  desertion.  "  May 
God  forgive  you,  Diane,"  she  said,  quietly,  passing 
on  again.     "I  try  to  do  so;  but  it's  hard." 

While  Derek's  eyes  were  riveted  on  Diane,  she 
stood  staring  vacantly  at  the  empty  doorway 
through  which  Mrs.  Eveleth  and  Miss  Lucilla  had 
passed  on  their  way  up-stairs.  This  abandon- 
ment was  so  far  outside  the  range  of  what  she  had 
considered  possible  that  there  seemed  to  be  no 
avenues  to  her  intelligence  through  which  the  con- 
viction of  it  could  be  brought  home.     She  gazed 


fHE      INNER      SHRINE 

IS  though  her  own  vision  were  at  fault,  as  though 
her  powers  of  comprehension  had  failed  her. 

Derek,  on  his  part,  watched  her,  with  the  fasci- 
nauon  with  which  we  watch  a  man  performing 
some  strange  feat  of  skill-from  whom  first  one 
support,  and  then  another,  and  then  another,  falls 
away,  -ntil  he  is  left  witli  notliing  to  uphold  him, 
perilously,  frightfully  alone. 

When  at  length  the  knowledge  of  what  had  oc- 
curred came  over  her,  Diane  looked  round  the 
familiar  room,  as  though  to  bring  her  senses  back 
out  of  the  realm  of  the  incredible.  When  her  eyes 
rested  on  him  it  was  simply  to  include  him  among 
the  common  facts  of  earth  after  this  excursion  into 
the  impossible.  She  said  nothing,  and  her  face 
was  blank;  but  the  little  gesture  of  the  hands— the 
little  limp  French  gesture:  the  sudden  lift,  the 
sud(l  n  drcpj  the  soft,  tired  sound,  as  the  arms  fell 
against  the  sides— implied  fatality,  finality,  inex- 
plicability,    and  an  infinite  weariness  of  created 


XIV 

Do  you  think  he  did— shoot  himself?" 
They  continued  to  stand  staring  into  each 
other's  eyes— the  width  of  the  room  between  them. 
A  red  azalea  on  the  long  mahogany  table,  strewn 
with  books,  separated  them  by  its  fierce  splash  of 
color.  The  apathy  of  Diane's  voice  was  not  that  of 
worn-out  emotion,  but  of  emotion  which  finds  no 
adequate  tones.  The  very  way  in  which  her  in- 
quiry ignored  all  other  subjects  between  them  had 
its  poignancy. 
"What  do  _you  think?" 

'Oh,  I  suppose  he  did.  Every  one  says  so;  Jien 
why  shouldn't  it  be  true  ?  If  it  we'c,  it  would  only 
be  of  a  piece  with  all  the  rest." 

"I  reminded  you  last  night  that  he  had  other 
troubles  besides — besides — " 

"  Besides  those  I  may  have  caused  him." 
"If  you  like  to  put  it  so.     He  might  have  been 
.riven  to  a  desperate  act  by  loss  of  fortune." 

"J.*aving  me  to  face  poverty  alone.  No;  I  can't 
Aink  so  ill  of  him  as  that.  If  you  suggest  it  by 
way  of  offering  me  consolation,  you're  making  a 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

mistake.     Of  the  two,  I'd  rather  think  of  him  a. 

seeking  death  from  horror-horror  of  me-tha« 

trom  simple  cowardice." 
"It  would  be  no  new  thing  in  the  histoiy  of  money 

troubles;   and  it  would  relieve  you  of  the  blame  " 
To  fasten  it  on  him.    I  see  what  you  mean; 

but  I  prefer  not  to  accept  that  kind  of  absolution. 
If  there  s  any  consolation  left  to  me,  it's  in  the 
pnde  of  havmg  been  the  wife  of  an  honorable  man 
Don  t  take  it  away  from  me  as  long  as  there's  any 
other  explanation  possible.  I  see  you're  puzzled; 
but  youd  have  to  be  a  wife  to  understand  me 
Accuse  me  of  any  crime  you  like;  take  it  for  granted 
that  I  ve  been  guilty  of  it;  only  don't  say  that  he 
deserted  me  in  that  way.  Let  me  keep  at  least  the 
comfort  of  his  memory." 

"I  want  you  to  keep  all  the  comfort  you  can  get, 
Diane.  God  forbid  that  I  should  take  from  vou 
anything  m  which  you  find  support.  So  far  am  I 
fron,  that,  that  I  come  to  offer  you-what  I  have 
to  otter. 

There  was  a  minute's  .ciience  before  she  replied: 
^  1  don  t  know  what  that  is." 
'My  name." 

There  was  another  minute's  silence,  during  which 
she  looked  at  him  hardly. 
"What  for.?" 

"I  should  think  you'd  see." 
"  I  don't.    Will  you  be  good  enough  to  explain  r 
'*  205 


ii 


:...  ..L- 


THE      INNER      SHRINK 

"Is  that  necessary?  Is  this  a  minute  in  which 
to  bandy  words  ?" 

"It's  a  minute  in  which  I  may  be  permittee  to 
ask  the  meaning  of  your — generosity." 

"It  isn't  generosity.  I'm  saying  nothing  new. 
I've  come  only  for  an  answer  to  the  question  I 
asked  you  before  going  to  South  America,  three 
months  ago." 

"Oh,  but  I  thought  that  question  had  answered 
itself." 

"Then  perhaps  it  has-^in  that,  whatever  reply 
you  might  have  given  me  under  other  conditions, 
now  you  must  accept  me." 

"You  mean,  I  must  accept— your  name." 

"My  name,  and  all  that  goes  with  it." 

"How  could  you  expect  me  to  do  that,  after 
what  happened  last  night .?" 

"What  happened  last  night  shall  be— as  though 
it  had  not  happened." 

"  Could  you  ever  forget  it .'" 

"I  didn't  say  I  should  forget  it.  I  suppose  I 
couldn't  do  that  any  more  than  you.  I  said  it 
jshould  be  as  though  it  hadn't  been." 

"And  what  about  Dorothea  ?" 

"That  must  be  as  it  may." 

"You  mean  that  Dorothea  would  have  to  take 
her  chance." 

"She  needn't  know  anything  about  it— ^yet" 

"You  couldn't  keep  it  from  her  forever." 
206 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  N  P. 

"No.  But  she'll  probably  marry  soon.  After 
that  she'll  understand  things  better." 

"That  is,  she'll  understand  the  position  in  which 
you've  been  placed— tliat  you  could  hardly  have 
acted  otherwise." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  into  definitions.  There  are 
umes  in  life  when  words  become  as  dangerous  as 
explosives.  Let  us  do  what  we  see  to  be  our  ob- 
vious duty,  without  saying  too  much  about  it." 

"Isn't  it  your  first  duty  to  protect  your  child  .?" 

"My  first  duty,  as  I  see  it  row,  is  to  protect 
you." 

"I  don't  see  much  to  be  gained  by  shielding  one 
person  when  ycu  expose  another.  Wiiat  happens 
to  me  IS  a  small  matter  comfared  with  the  con- 
sequences to  her." 

"Your  influence  hasn't  hurt  her  in  the  past; 
why  should  it  do  so  now  ?" 

"You  forget  tliat  there  are  other  things  besides 
my  influence.  Her  whole  position,  her  whole  life, 
would  be  changed,  if  she  had  for  a  mother— if  yoii 
had  for  a  wife— a  notorious  woman  like  me." 

"There  are  situations  where  the  child  must  fol- 
low the  parent." 

"But  there  are  none,  as  far  as  I  know,  in  which 
the  parent  must  sacrifice  the  child." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.     There  are  moments 
111  which  we  muEt  act  in  a  certain  definite  manner, 
no  matter  what  may  be  the  outcome.     Don't  let  us 
207 


II 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

talk  of  it  any  more,  Diane.    You  must  Itnow  as  well 
M  I  that  there  is  but  one  thing  for  us  to  do." 
"You  mean,  of  course,  that  I  must  marry  you." 
"You  must  give  me  the  right  to  take  care  of 
you. " 

"  Because  it's  a  duty  that  no  one  else  would  as- 
sume. That's  what  it  comes  to,  isn't  it?" 
"I  repeat  that  I  don't  want  to  discuss  it—" 
"You  must  let  me  point  out  that  some  amount 
of  discussion  is  needed.  If  we  didn't  have  it  be- 
fore marriage,  we  should  have  it  afterward,  when 
it  would  be  worse.  You  won't  think  I'm  boasting 
if  I  say  that  I  think  my  vision  is  a  little  keener  than 
yours,  and  that  I  see  what  you'd  be  doing  more 
clearly  than  you  do  yourself.  You  know  me— or 
you  think  you  know  me— as  a  guilty  woman,  home- 
less, penniless,  and  without  a  friend  in  the  world. 
You  don't  want  to  leave  me  to  my  fate,  and  there's 
no  way  of  helping  me  but  (5ne.  That  way  you're 
prepared  to  take,  cost  what  it  will.  I  admire  you 
for  it;  I  thank  you  for  it;  I  know  you  would  do  it 
like  a  man.  But  it's  just  because  you  ivouli  do  it 
like  a  man — because  you  are  doing  it  like  a  man- 
that  your  kindness  is  far  more  cruel  than  scorn. 
No  woman,  not  the  weakest,  not  the  worst,  among 
us,  would  consent  to  be  taken  as  you're  offering  to 
take  me.  A  man  might  bring  himself  to  accept  that 
kind  of  pity;  but  a  woman— never!  You  said  just 
now  that  you  had  come  to  offw  me— what  you  had 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

to  offer;  but  surely  I'm  not  faUen  so  low  as  to  haw 
to  take  It." 

"I  said  I  offered  you  my  name  and  all  that  goes 
with  It.  I  would  try  to  tell  you  what  it  is,  only  that 
1  hnd  something  in  our  relative  positions  transcend- 
ing words.  But  since  you  need  words— since  ap- 
patently  you  prefer  plainness  of  speech— I'll  tell 
you  something:  I  saw  Bienville  this  morning." 

She  looked  up  with  a  new  expression,  verging  on 
that  of  curiosity. 
"And—?" 

"Since  then,"  he  continued,  "I've  become  even 
more  deeply  conscious  than  I  was  before  of  the  ii>. 
eradicabie  nature  of  what  I  feel  for  vou  " 
"Ah  ?"  ^     ■ 

"I've  come  to  see  that,  whatever  may  have  hap- 
pened, whatever  you  may  be,  I  want  you  as  my 
wife."  ' 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  would  overlook  wrong, 
domg  on  my  part,  and— and— care  for  me,  just 
the  same  ?" 

"I  mean  that  life  isn't  a  conceivable  thing  to  me 
without  you;  I  mean  that  no  considerations  in  the 
world  have  any  force  as  against  my  desire  to  get 
you.  Whatever  your  life  has  been,  I  subscribe  to 
It.  Listen!  When  I  saw  Bienville  this  morning 
he  withdrew  what  he  said  on  shipboard— as  nearly 
as  possible,  without  giving  himself  the  lie,  he 
denied  it— and  yet,  Diane,  and  yet  I  knew  his  first 
209 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

ttory  was— the  truth.  No,  don't  shrink.  Don't 
ciy  out.  Let  me  go  on.  I  swear  to  God  that  it 
makes  no  difference.  I  see  the  whole  thing  from 
another  point  of  view.  I'll  not  only  take  you  a< 
you  are,  but  I  want  you  as  you  are.  I  give  you 
my  honor,  which  is  dearer  than  my  life — I  give 
you  my  child,  who  is  more  precious  than  my  honor. 
Everything— everything  is  cheap,  so  long  as  I  can 
win  you.  Don't  shrink  from  me,  Diane.  Don't 
look  at  me  like  that — " 

"  How  can  I  help  sh  rinking  from  anything  so  base  ?" 

Her  voice  rose  scarcely  above  a  whisper,  but  it 
checked  the  movement  with  which,  after  the  min- 
utes of  almost  motionless  confrontation,  he  came 
toward  her  with  eager  arms. 

"Base?"  he  echoed,  offended. 

"Yes — base.  That  a  man  should  care  for  a 
woman  whom  he  thinks  to  be  bad  is  comprehensible; 
that  he  should  wish  to  make  her  his  wife  is  credible; 
that  he  should  hope  to  lift  her  out  of  her  condition 
is  admirable;  but  that  he  should  descend  from  his 
own  high  plane  to  stay  on  hers  is  despicably  weak; 
while  to  drag  down  with  him  a  girl  in  the  very 
flower  of  her  purity  is  a  crime  without  a  name." 

The  dark  "  ish  showed  how  quickly  his  haughty 
spirit  responded  to  the  flicker  of  the  lash. 

"If  you  choose  to  put  that  interpretation  of  my 
words — "  he  began,  indignantly. 

'I  don't;  but  it's  the  interpretation  they  deserve. 


LKA.  INNER     s  rr  p  TATj^ 

There's  almost  no  indignity  that  can  be  utteied 
wh.ch  you  haven't  heaped  upon  me;  and  ofS 
all  this  last  IS  the  hardest  to  be  borne.  I  bear  if 
I  forgive  ,t;  because  it  convinces  me  of  what  I've' 
been  afra.d  of  all  along-that  I'm  a  woman  wh^ 
throws  some  sort  of  evil  influence  over  men.  Even 
you  are  not  exempt  from  it -^ven  you!  Oh  Derek 
go  away  from  me !    If  you  won't  do  it  for  y;ur  owL' 

BienviIIe  s  accusations  now.  Perhaps  I  n,ay  never 
do  battle  wuh  them  at  all.  What  does  it  matter 
whether  he  tells  the  truth  or  lies?  The  prTssTng 
thing  just  now  is  that  you  should  be  saved-" 

Ihank  you;  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  Let's 
have  no  more  fine  splitting  of  moral  hairs.  Let 
us  settle  the  thing,  and  be  done  with  it.  There's 
one  big  fact  before  us,  and  only  one.  You  can't  do 
without  me;  I  can't  do  without  you.  It's  a  crisis 
at  which  we've  the  right  to  think'only  ofZ^Z 
and  thrust  every  one  else  outside." 

nn'Tf "  'mx.'"'?'^'/''  ^^  ="'^'"**''  »"«:«  more 
upon  her.  'Wait!  Let  me  tell  you  something. 
Vou  mustn't  be  hard  on  me  for  saying  it.  You 
asked  just  now  for  my  answer  to  your  question  of 
three  months  ago.     My  answer  is—" 

'Diane!"  he  said,  lifting  his  hand  in  warning. 
Be  careful.     Don't  speak  in  a  hur^:.     I'm  not  in 
a  mood  to  plead  or  argue  any  longer.     What  you 
say  now  will  be— the  irrevocable  word." 

211 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 


if; 


"I  know  it.  It  will  not  only  be  the  irrevocable 
word,  but  the  last  word.  Derek,  I  see  you  as  you 
are,  a  strong,  simple,  honest  man.  I  admire  you; 
I  esteem  you;  I  honor  you;  I'm  grateful  to  you  as 
a  woman  is  rarely  grateful  to  a  man.  And  yet  I'd 
rather  be  all  vou  think  me;  I'd  rather  earn  my 
bread  as  desperate  women  do  earn  it  than  be  your 
wife." 

They  looked  at  each  other  long  and  steadily. 
When  he  spoke,  his  words  were  those  she  had  is- 
vited,  but  tiiey  made  her  gasp  as  one  gasps  at  dial 
which  suddenly  takes  one's  breath. 

"As  you  wiU,"  he  said,  briefly. 


XV 

AS  the  pivot  of  events,  Miss  Lucilla  van  Tromp 
r-V  was  beginning  to  feel  the  responsibilities  of 
her  position  Only  a  woman  with  an  inexhaustible 
heart  could  have  met  as  she  did  the  demands  for 
lympathy,  of  various  shades,  made  by  the  chief 
participants  in  the  drama;  while  there  was  one 
phase  of  the  action  which  called  for  a  heroic  dis- 
play of  conscience. 

It  was  impossible  now  to  contemplate  Marion 
Onmston  s  peril  without  a  grave  sense  of  the  duties 
imposed  by  friendship.     Some  people  might  stand 
by  and  see  a  girl  wreck  her  happiness  by  giving  her 
heart  to  an  unworthy  suitor,  but  Miss  van  Tromp 
was  not  among  that  number.     It  was,  in  fact,  one 
of  those  junctures  at  which  all  her  good  instincu 
prompted  her  to  say,  "1  ought  to  go  and  tell  her." 
As  a  patriotic  spinster,  she  held  decided  views  on 
the  question  of  marriage  between  American  heiresses 
and  impecunious  foreign  noblemen— and,  in  her 
•yes,  all  foreign  noblemen  were  impecunious— in 
any  case;  but  to  see  Marion  Grimston  become  the 
««mi  of  her  parents'  vulgar  ambitiun  gave  to  the 
213 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

subject  a  personal  bearing  which  made  her  duty 
urgent  If  ever  there  was  a  moment  when  a  goddess 
in  a  machine  could  feel  justified  in  descending,  for 
active  interveition,  it  was  now.  She  had  the  less 
hesitation  in  doing  so,  owing  to  the  fact  that  she 
had  known  Marion  since  her  cradle;  and  between 
the  two  there  had  always  existed  the  subtle  tie  which 
not  seldom  binds  the  widely  diver^-e  but  essentially 
like-minded  together.  Accordingly,  on  a  bright 
May  morning,  withm  a  few  days  of  the  last  meeting 
between  Derek  Pruyn  and  Diane  Eveleth,  she  sallied 
forth  to  the  fashionable  quarter  where  Mrs.  Bay- 
ford  dwelt,  coming  home,  some  two  hours  later, 
with  a  considerably  extended  knowledge  of  the 
possibilities  inheient  in  human  nature. 

The  tale  Miss  Lucilla  told  was  that  which  had 
already  been  many  times  repeated,  each  narrator 
lending  to  it  the  color  imparted  by  his  own  views  of 
life.  As  now  set  forth,  it  became  the  stoty  of  a 
girl  sought  in  m.arriage  by  a  man  who  Las  inflicted 
monal  wrong  upon  an  innocent  young  woman. 
With  unconscious  art  Miss  Lucilla  placed  fvlarion 
Grimston  herself  in  the  centre  of  the  piece,  making 
the  subsidiary  characters  revolve  around  her.  This 
situation  brought  with  it  a  double  duty:  the  one 
explicit  in  righting  the  oppressed,  the  other  in»- 
plicit — for  Miss  Lucilla  balked  at  putting  it  too 
plainly  into  words — in  punishing  a  wicked  marquij. 

The  girl  sat  with  head  slightly  bowed  and  r.ch 
214 


THE      IN  ^JR^JJiJUJ^ 
color  deepening.       f  she  show.  -   emotion  at  aS,  it 
was  in  her  haughtj  s  illness,  ■.  ,  though  she  volun- 
tanly  put  all  expression  out  of  her  face  ur.fil  the 
recital  was  ended.     The  effect  on  Miss  Lucilla,  as 
they  sat  side  by  side  on  a  sofa,  was  slightly  discon 
certmg,  so  that  she  came  to  her  conclusion  lamely. 
"Of  course,  my  dear,  I  don't  know  his  side  of  the 
story,  or  what  he  may  have  to  say  in  self-deferce 
1  m  only  telling  you  what  I've  heard,  and  iust  rs  1 
heard  it." 

"  I  dare  say  it's  quite  right." 
The  brevity  and  suggested  cynicism  of  this  reply 
produced  in  Miss  Lucilla  a  little  shock. 
"Oh!     Then,  vou  think—.?" 
"There  would  be  nothing  surprising  in  it.     It's 
the  sort  of  thing  that's  always  happening  in  Paris. 
It's  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  that  societ;^  that  you 
can  never  believe  half  the  evil  you  hear  of  any  one 
—not  even  if  it's  toi,]  you  by  the  m.an  himself.     I 
might  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,  when  it's  told  you 
by  himself  you're  least  of  all  inclined  to  credit  it  " 
"But  how  dreadful!" 

"Things  are  dreadful  or  not,  according  to  the 
degree  in  which  you're  used  to  them.  I've  grown 
up  in  that  atmosphere,  and  so  I  can  endure  it.  In 
fact,  any  other  atmosphere  seems  to  me  to  lack 
some  of  the  necessary  ingredients  of  air;  just  as 
to  some  people -to  Napoleon,  for  instance— a 
woman  who  isn't  rouged  isn't  wholly  dressed." 
215 


THE      i  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

"I  know  that's  only  youi  way  of  talking,  dear. 
Oh,  you  can't  shock  me." 

"At  any  rate,  the  way  of  talk-'ng  shows  you  what 
I  mean.  I  can  quite  understand  how  Monsieur  de 
Bienville  might  have  said  that  of  Mrs.  Eveleth." 

Lucilla's  look  of  pain  induced  Miss  Grimston 
promptly  to  qualify  her  statement. 

"I  said  I  could  understand  it;  I  didn't  say  I 
respected  it.  It's  only  what's  been  said  of  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  women  in  Paris  by  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  men,  and  in  the  place  where  they've 
said  it  it's  taken  with  the  traditional  grain  of  salt. 
If  all  had  gone  as  it  was  going  at  the  time — if  the 
Eveleths  hadn't  lost  their  money— if  Mr.  Eveleth 
hadn't  shot  himself— if  Mrs.  F ,  eleth  had  kept  her 
place  in  French  society — the  story  wouldn't  have 
done  her  any  harm.  People  would  have  shrugged 
cheir  shoulders  at  it,  and  forgotten  it.  It's  the  trans- 
ferring of  the  scene  here,  among  you,  that  makes  it 
grave.  All  your  ideas  are  so  different  that  what's 
bad  becomes  worse,  by  being  carried  out  of  its 
inilieu.  Monsieur  de  Bienville  must  be  made  to 
understand  that,  and  repair  the  wrong." 

"You  seem  to  think  there's  no  question  but  that 
— there  is  a  wrong .?" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  thore  isn't.     There  are  so  many 

cases  of  the  kind.     Mrs.  Eveleth  is  probably  neither 

more  nor  less  than  one  of  the  many  Frenchwomen 

of  her  rank  in  life  who  like  to  skate  out  on  the  thin 

216 


THE      INNER      S  H  RI  N  n 

edge  of  excitement  without  any  intention  of  going 
Arough.  There  are  always  women  like  my  aunt 
Bayford  to  think  the  worst  of  people  of  that  son. 
and  to  say  it." 

"And  yet  I  don't  see  how  that  justifies  Monsieur 
de  Bienville." 

"It  doesn't  justify;  it  only  explains.  Respon- 
sibihty  presses  less  heavily  on  the  individual  when 
Its  shared." 

"But  wouldn't  the  person— you'll  forgive  me, 
dear,  won't  you,  if  I'm  going  too  far  ?-wouldn't 
the  person  who  has  to  take  his  part  in  that  kind 
of  responsibility  be  a  doubtful  keeper  of  one's  hap- 
piness  ?"  "^ 

Miss  Grimston,  half  lowering  her  eyes,  looked  at 
her  visitor  with  slumberous  suspension  of  expression, 
and  made  no  reply. 

"If  a  man  isn't  good— "  Miss  LuciUa  began  again, 
tremblingly.  &       6    •» 

"No  man  is  perfect." 
_  "True,  dear;  and  yet  are  there  not  certain  quali. 
Oes  which  we  ought  to  consider  as  essentials—?" 

"Monsieur  de  Bienville  has  those  qualities  for 
me. 

"But  surely,  dear,  you  can't  mean—?" 

"Yes,  I  do  mean." 

The  avowal  was  made  quietly,  with  the  still 
bearing  of  one  who  gives  a  ity,  drops  of  confession 
out  of  deep  oceans  of  reserve.  Miss  LuciUa  gazed 
ai7 


THE      I  r  N  E  R      S  H  R  I  N 


at  her  in  astonishment.    That  her  parents  shou 

sacrifice  her  was  not  surprising;  but  that  she  shou 

be  willing  to  sacrifice  henelf  went  beyond  the  limi 

of   thought.    The   revelation    that   Marion   coui 

actually  love  the  man  was  so  startling  that  it  shockt 

her  out  of  her  timidity,  loosening  the  strings  of  h( 

eloquence  and  unsealing  the  sources  of  her  mi 

ternal  tenderness.     There  was  nothing  original  i 

Miss   Lucilla's  subsequent  line  of  argument. 

was  the  old,  oft-yttered,  futile  appeal  to  the  heat 

when  the  heart  has  already  spoken.     It  premise 

the  possibility  of  placing  one's  affections  where  on 

cannot  give  one's  respect,  regardless  of  the  fact  tha 

the  thing  is   done  a   thousand   times   a   day.     ] 

reasoned,  it  predicted,  it  implored,  with  an  elFec 

no  more  disintegrating  on  the  girl's  decision  thai 

moonbeams  make  upon  a  mountain.    Through  i 

all,  she  sat  and  listened  with  the  veiled  eyes  am 

my.sterious    impassivity  which   gave   to   her  pel 

scmality  a  curiously  incalculable  quality,  as  of  ; 

force  presenting  none  of  the  ordinary  phenomen; 

by  which  to  measure  or  compute  it. 

It  was  not  till  Miss  Lucilla  touched  on  the  sub 
j'ect  of  honor  that  she  obtained  any  sign  of  the  efl^ec 
she  was  producing.  It  was  no  more,  on  Marion' 
part,  than  an  uneasy  movement,  but  it  betrayed  it 
cause.  Miss  Lucilla  pressed  her  point  with  re 
newed  insistence,  and  presently  two  big  tears  hum 
on  the  long,  black  lashes  and  rolled  down. 
218 


THE     INNER 
"I  should  like  to  see  Mrs,  Eveleth  " 
i^ike  the  hasty  laising  and  dropping  of  a  curtain 

face  to  face  on  tl.e  neutral  ground  of  Gramercy  ?,A. 

It  was  a  meeting  that,  when  it  toot  place,  would 
W  been  attended  with  en,barrassn,^t  haZ" 
both  young  women  been  practised  in  tl,e  ways  rf 

sTdes  of  ?h.  r-  ''''"'>^  the  existence,  on  both 
sides,  of  the  European  view  of  life,  with  its  fus^ 
of  .nterests,  its  softness  of  outline,  its  give  and  tk^ 
of  toIerat.on.  ,n  contradistinction  to  the  sharp  clear 
insistent  American  demands  for  a  cer^a  n  linl  nf 
conduct  and  no  other.  Five  minutes  had  nitne 
by  .n  talk  before  each  found  in  the  other's  "esfn" 
thatse„,eof  repose  wh-:ch  comes  frou,aimilarhab"ts 

ftleat  t,  '^'^"^"«  ^^J'  '"■■ght  find,  they  were, 
at  least    rai  ged  on  the  same  side  in  that  battle 

upon  each  other  as  to  the  main  purpc^.-s  if  Uff 

Thus  tey  were  able  to  approach  th'eir^ubiecfwt^ 

Wt  that  first  prehminarv  shock  which  «akes  it 

aio 


THE     INNER 


SHRINE 


difficult  for  races  to  agree;  and  thus,  too,  Marion 
Grimston  found  herself,  before  she  was  aware  of 
it,  pouring  out  to  Diane  Eveleth  that  heart  which, 
in  response  to  Miss  Lucilla's  tender  pleading,  had 
been  dumb. 

They  sat  in  the  big,  sombre  library  where,  only 
a  few  days  before,  Diane  had  seen  Derek  Pruyn  turn 
his  back  on  her,  without  even  a  gesture  of  farewell. 
On  the  long  mahogany  table  the  red  azalea  was  in 
almost  passionate  luxuriance  of  blossom;  while 
through  the  open  window  faint  odors  of  lilac  came 
from  Miss  Lucilla's  bit  of  garden. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  him  worse  than 
you're  obliged  to,"  Marion  said,  as  though  in  de- 
fence of  the  stand  her  heart  had  taken.  "I've  been 
told  that  very  few  men  possess  the  two  kinds  of 
courage — the  moral  and  the  physical.  Savonarola 
had  the  one  and  Nelson  had  the  other;  but  neither 
of  them  had  both.  And  of  the  two,  for  me,  the 
physical  is  the  essential.  I  can't  help  it.  If  I 
had  to  choose  between  a  soldier  and  a  saint,  I'd 
take  the  soldier.  When  the  worst  is  said  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Bienville,  it  must  be  admitted  that  he's 
brave." 

"I've  always  understood  that  he  was  a  good 
rider  and  a  good  shot,"  Diane  admitted.  "  I've  no 
doubt  that  in  batde  he  would  conduct  himself  like 
a  hero." 

The  girl's  head  went  up  proudly,  and  from  the 


B 


THE     INNER      S  H  RJJ^ 

languorous  eyes  there  came  one  splendid  flash  be- 
fore the  lids  fell  over  them  again. 

"I  know  he  vould;   and  when  a  man  has  that 
•ort  of  courage  he's  wonh  saving." 
"You  admit,  then,  that  he  needs  tc  be— saved  .?" 
Again  thf  i^eavy  iids  were  lifted  for  one  brief, 
search-light  glance. 

"Yes;   I  admit  that.     I  believe  he  has  wronged 
you.     I  can't  tell  you  i.ow  I  know  it;    but  I  do. 
It's  to  tell  you  so  that  I've  asked  you  to  come  here. 
I  hoped  to  make  you  see,  as  I  do,  that  he's  capable 
of  doing  it  without  appreciating  the  nature  of  his 
crime.     If  we  could  get  him  to  see  that — " 
"Then— what?" 
"He'd  make  you  reparation." 
"Are  you  so  sure  ?" 
"I'm  very  sure.     Ifhe  didn't—" 
The  consequences  of  that  possibility  being  diffi- 
cult  of  expression,  she  hung  upon  her  words. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  have  you  brought  to  so 
momentous  a  decision  on  my  account." 

"It  wouldn't  be  on  your  account;  it  would  be 
on  my  own.  I  understand  myself  well  enougli  to 
see  that  I  could  love  a  dishonorable  man;  but  I 
couldn't  marry  him." 

'You  have,  of  course,  your  own  idea  as  to  what 
makes  a  man  dishonorable." 

"What  makes  a  man  dishonorable  -s  to  persist  in 
dishonor  after  he  has  become  aware  of  it.    Any 

•»  121 


THE      INNER      SHRI 


MB 


S    1 


one  may  speak  tkmghtlegsly,  or  boastfully,  or  fool- 
ishly, and  be  forgiven  for  it.  But  he  can't  be  for- 
given if  he  keeps  it  up,  especially  when  by  his  doing 
so  a  woman  has  to  suffer." 

The  movement  with  which  Diane  pushed  back 
her  chair  and  rose  betrayed  a  troubled  rather  than 
an  impatient  spirit 

"Miss  Grimston,"  she  said,  standing  before  the 
girl  and  looking  down  upon  her,  "I  should  almost 
prefer  not  to  have  you  take  my  affairs  into  your 
consideration.  I  doubt  if  they're  worth  it.  I  can't 
deny  that  I  shrink  from, becoming  a  factor  in  your 
life,  as  well  as  from  feeling  that  you  must  make 
your  decisions,  or  unmake  them,  with  reference  to 
me." 

"I'm  not  making  my  decisions,  or  unmaking 
them,  with  reference  to  you;  it's  with  reference  to 
Monsieur  de  Bienville.  He  has  my  father's  con- 
sent  to  his  asking  me  to  be  his  wife.  I  understand 
that,  according  to  the  formal  French  fashion,  he's 
going  to  do  it  to-morrow.  Before  I  give  him  an 
answer  I  must  know  that  he  is  such  a  man  as  I 
could  marry." 

"You  would  have  thought  him  so  if  you  hadn't 
heard  this  about  me." 

"Even  so,  it's  better  for  me  to  have  heard  it 
Any  prudent  person  would  tell  you  that.  What 
I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do  now  will  not  be  for  your 
sake;  it  will  be  for  mine." 

222 


THE      IN  N  E  R      S  H  R   r  ?^ 

'•You're  going  to  ask  me  to  do  something?" 

Yes;  to  see  Monsieur  de  Bienville." 
Wane  recoiled  with  an  expression  of  dismay. 
I  know  ,t  will  ',e  hard  for  you,"  Miss  Grimston 
pursued,  and  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  do  it  if  it  were 
not  the  straightest  way  out  of  a  perplexing  situation. 
1  ve  confidence  enough  in  him  to  believe  that  when 
he  has  seen  you  and  lieard  your  story,  he'll  act 
accordmg  to  the  dictates  of  a  nature  which  I  know 
to  be  essentially  honorable,  even  if  it's  weak  You 
can  see  what  that  will  mean  to  us  all.  It  will  not 
only  clear  you  and  rehabilitate  him,  but  it  will  bring 
nappmess  to  me."  ^ 

There  was  something  in  the  way  in  which  these 
bnef  statements  were  made  that  gave  them  the 
nature  of  an  appeal.  The  veiy  difficulty  of  the 
reserved  heart  in  speaking  out,  the  shame-flushed 
dieek-the  subdued  voice-the  halting  breath- 
had  on  D,ane  a  more  potent  effect  than  eloquence. 
What  was  left  of  her  own  hope,  too,  at  once  put 
forth  ,ts  claim  at  the  possibility  of  getting  justice 
It  was  a  matter  of  taking  her  courage  in  both  hands] 
in  one  tremendous  effon.  but  the  fact  that  this  girl 
beiieved  in  her  was  a  stimulus  to  making  the  at- 
tempt. Before  they  parted— with  stammering  ex- 
pressions of  mutual  sympathy-she  had  given  her 
word  to  do  it 


XVI 


IN  the  degree  to  which  masculine  good  looks  and 
elegance  are  accessories  to  impressing  a  maid's 
heart,  the  Marquis  de  Bienville  had  reason  to  be 
sure  of  the  effect  he  was  producing,  as  he  bent 
and  kissed  Miss  Marion  Grimston's  hand,  in  her 
aunt's  drawinp-roon,  on  the  following  afternoon. 
He  was  not  surprised  to  detect  the  thrill  that  shot 
through  her  being  at  his  act  of  homage,  and  com- 
municated itself  back  to  him;  for  he  was  tolerably 
certain  of  her  love.  That  had  been,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  confessed  more  than  two  years  ago; 
while,  during  the  intervening  time,  he  had  not 
lacked  signs  that  the  gift  once  bestowed  had  never 
been  withdrawn.  He  had  stood  for  a  few  seconds 
at  the  threshold  on  entering  the  room,  just  to  re- 
joice consciously  at  his  great  good -fortune.  She 
had  risen,  but  not  advanced,  to  meet  him,  her  tall 
figure,  sheathed  in  some  close-fitting,  soft  stuff, 
thrown  into  relief  by  the  dark-blue  velvet  portiere 
behind  her.  He  was  not  unaware  of  his  unworthi* 
ness  in  the  presence  of  this  superb  young  creature^ 
and  as  he  crossed  the  room  it  was  with  the  humilitir 
of  a  worshipper  before  a  shrine. 
224 


i.    ~ 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  simply,  when  he  had 
raised  himself,  "I  come  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you." 
The  glance,  slighdy  oblique,  of  suspended  ex- 
pression with  which  she  received  the  words  en- 
couraged him  to  continue. 

"I  know  how  far  what  I  have  to  give  is  beneath 
the  honor  of  your  acceptance;  and  yet  when  men 
love  they  are  impelled  to  offer  all  the  litde  that  they 
have.  My  one  hope  lies  in  the  fact  that  a  woman 
like  you  doesn't  love  a  man  for  what  he  is— but 
for  what  she  can  make  him." 

The  words  were  admirably  chosen,  reaching  her 
heart  with  a  force  greater  than  he  knew. 

"A  woman,"  she  answered,  with  a  certain  stately 
uplifting  of  the  head,  "can  only  make  a  man  that 
which  he  has  already  the  power  to  become.  She 
may  be  able  to  point  out  the  way;  but  it's  for  him 
to  follow  it" 

"I  don't  think  you'd  see  me  hesitate  at  that." 

"I'm  glad  you  say  so;  because  the  road  I  should 
have  to  ask  you  to  take  would  be  a  hard  one." 

"The  harder  the  better,  if  it's  anything  by  which 
I  can  prove  my  love." 

"It  is;  but  it's  not  only  that;  it's  something  by 
which  you  could  prove  mine." 

His  face  brightened. 

"In  that  case.  Mademoiselle — speak." 

She  took  an  instant  to  assemble  her  forces,  stand- 
ing before  him  with  a  calmness  she  did  not  feel. 
225 


li!    A 


THE      FN  N.E  R      SHRINE 

"You  must  foi^e  me,"  she  said,  trying  to  keep 
her  voice  steady,  "if  I  take  the  initiative,  as  no  giil 
is  often  caUed  upon  to  do.  Perhaps  I  should  hesi- 
tate more  if  you  hadn't  told  me,  two  years  ago. 
what  I  know  you've  come  to  repeat  to-day.  The 
fact  that  I've  waited  those  two  years  to  hear  you 
say  it  gives  me  a  ri^  that  otherwise  I  shouldn't 
claim." 
He  bowed. 

"There  are  no  rights  that  a  woman  can  have 
over  a  man  which  you,' Mademoiselle,  do  not  po»« 
sets  over  me." 

"  Before  telling  me  again,"  she  continued,  speakH 

ing  with  difficulty^  "what  you've  told  me  already, 

I  want  to  say  that  I  can  only  listen  to  it  on  one 

condition."  ;|„ 

"Which  is— ?"  ,, 

"That  your  own  conscience  is  atpeace  with  itselfi" 

There  was  a  sudden  startled  toss  of  the  head, 

but  he  answered^  bravely: . 

"Is  one's  conscience  ever  at  peace  with  itself i 
A.  woman's,  perhaps;   but  a  man's— F' 

He  shook  his  head  with  that  wistful  smile  of 
contrition  which  is  already  a  plea  for  pardon. 

"I'm  not  speaking  of  life  in  general,  but  of  somer 
thing  in  particular.  I  want  you  to  understtUd, 
before  yoii  ast  me— what  you've  come  to  aski  that 
yon  couldn't  make  one  woman  happy  while  you're 
doing  another  a  great  wrong." 
326 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  T  K  n. 

He  was  sure  uow  of  what  was  in  store  for  him 
and  braced  himself  for  his  part.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  who  need  but  to  see  peril  to  see  also  the 
way  of  meeting  it.  He  stood  for  a  minute,  very 
araight  and  erect,  like  a  soldier  before  a  court- 
martia!-a  culprit  whose  guilt  is  half  excused  by 
his  very  manliness. 

"I  have  wronged  women.  They've  wronged 
me,  too.  All  I  can  do  to  show  I'm  sorry  for  it  \s— 
not  to  give  them  the  same  sort  of  offence  again." 

I  m  thinking  of  one  woman-^ne  woman  in 
pameular." 

He  threw  back  his  head  with  fine  confidence. 

1  don  t  know  her." 
"It's  Diane  Eveleth.     She  says—" 
"I  can  imagine  what  she  says.     If  I  were  you, 
I  wouldn  t  pay  it  more  attenrion  than  it  deserves." 
It  deserves  a  good  deal— if  it's  true." 
"Not  from  you.  Mademoiselle.     It  belongs  to  a 
region  into  which  your  thought  shouldn't  enter." 

My  thought  does  enter  it,  I'm  af.aid.  In  fact, 
I  think  of  It  so  much  that  I've  invited  Mrs.  Eveleth 
to_  c6me  here  this  afternoon.  I  hope  you  don't 
mind  meeting  her .?" 

"Certa inly  not.    Why  should  I  ?"  he  demanded. 
With  an  air  of  conscious  rectitude. 

Miss  Grimston  touched  a  bell. 
_^*Asfc  Mrs.  Eveleth  to  come  in,"  she  said  to  tiMr 
rodtrtian  who  answered  it.       '     ;;;•!    :,;u'j-m>    sd' 
127 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 


I  n 


As  Diane  entered  she  greeted  Bienville  with  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  head,  which  he  returned, 
bowing  ceremoniously. 

"I've  begged  Mrs.  Eveleth  to  meet  us,"  Ma- 
rion hastened  to  explain,  "for  a  very  special  rea- 
son. 

"Then  perhaps  she  will  be  good  enough  to  tell  me 
what  it  is,"  Bienville  said,  witli  a  look  of  courteous 
inquiry. 

"Miss  Grimston  thought — you  might  be  able — 
to  help  mt."  ' 

There  was  a  catch  in  Diane's  voice  as  she  spoke, 
but  she  mastered  it,  keeping  her  eyes  on  his,  in  the 
effort  to  be  courageous. 

"  If  there's  anything  I  can  do — "  he  began,  al- 
lowing the  rest  of  his  sentence  to  be  inferred. 

He  concealed  his  nervousness  by  placing  a  small 
gilded  chair  for  Diane  to  sit  on.  He  himself  took 
a  chair  a  few  feet  away,  seating  himself  sidewise, 
with  his  elbow  supported  on  the  back,  in  an  easy 
attitude  of  attention.  Marion  Grimston  withdrew 
to  the  more  distant  part  of  the  room,  where,  with  her 
hands  behind  her,  she  stood  leaning  against  the 
grand  piano,  with  the  bearing  of  one  only  indirectly, 
and  yet  intensely,  concerned.  Bienville  left  the 
task  of  beginning  to  Diane.  In  spite  of  his  deter- 
mination to  be  self-possessed,  a  trace  of  com- 
punction was  visible  in  his  face  as  he  contrasted 
die  subdued  little  woman  before  him  with  the 
228 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

sparkling,   insouciant  creature  to  whom,  two  o 
three  years  ago,  he  had  paid  his  inglorious  court. 

"  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  you  quite  simply  and 
frankly,"  Diane  began,  with  some  hesitation,  still 
keeping  her  eyes  on  his,  " otherwise  you  wouldn't 
understand  me." 
"Quite  so,"  Bienville  assented,  politely. 
"You  may  not  have  heard  that  since — my— my 
husband's  death,  I  have  my  own  living  to  earn  ?" 
"Yes;    I  did  hear  something  of  the  kind." 
"  I've  had  what  people  in  my  position  call  a  good 
situation;    but  I  have  lost  it." 
"Ah .?    I'm  sorry." 

"I  thought  you  would  be.  That's  why  Miss 
Grimston  asked  me  to  tell  you  the  reason.  She 
was  sure  you  wouldn't  injure  me — knowingly." 

"Naturally.  I'm  very  much  surprised  that  any 
one  should  think  I've  injured  you  at  all.  To  the 
best  of  my  knowledge  your  name  has  not  passed 
my  lips  for  two  years,  at  the  least.  If  it  had  it 
would  only  have  been  spoken— with  respect " 

"I'm  sure  of  that.  I'm  not  pretending  when  I 
say  that  I'm  absolutely  convinced  you're  a  man  of 
sensitive  honor.  If  you  weren't  you  couldn't  be 
a  Frenchman  a.id  a  Bienville.  I  want  you  to 
understand  that  I've  never  attributed— the— things 
that  have  happened— to  anything  but  foil)  and 
imprudence — for  which  I  want  to  take  my  full 
share  of  the  blame." 

»*9 


T  H  E      I\N  N  ^  R      SHRINE 

"I've  never  ventured  to  express  to  you  my  own 
regret,"  Bienville  said,  in  a  tone  not  free  from 
emotion,  "but  I  assure  you  it's  very  deep." 

"I  know.  All  our  life  was  so  wrong!  It's  be- 
cause I  feel  sure  you  must  see  that  as  well  as  I 
do  that  I  hoped  you'd  help  me  now." 

He  said  nothing  in  reply,  letting  some  seconds 
pass  in  silence,  waiting  for  her  to  come  to  her 
point. 

"On  the  way  up  from  South  America,"  she  be- 
gan again,  with  visible  difficulty,  "you  were  on  the 
same  ship  with  my— my — employer.  From  cer- 
tain things  you  said  then — " 

"But  I've  withdrawn  them,"  he  interrupted, 
quickly.  "He  should  have  told  you  that.  Made- 
moiselle," he  added,  rising,  and  turning  toward 
Marion  Grimston,  "wouldn't  it  spare  you  if  we 
continued  this  conversation  alone  ?" 

"No;  I'd  rather  stay,"  Miss  Grimston  said,  with 
an  inflection  of  request.    "Please  sit  down  again." 

"He  should  have  told  you  that,"  Bienville  re- 
peated, taking  his  seat  once  more,  and  speaking 
with  some  animation.  "  I  did  ray  best  to  straighten 
things  out  for  him."' 

"  Then  he  didn't  understand  you.  He  told  me 
you  had  taken  back  what  you  had  said,  but  only 
in  a  way  that  reaffirmed  it." 

"That's  nothing  but  a  tortuous  construction  put 
on  straightforward  words." 
230 


t_H^     I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

"Quite  so;  but  for  that  very  reason  I  thought 
that  perhaps  you'd  go  to  him  again  and  explain 
what  you  meant  more  clearly." 

He  took  a  minute  to  consider  this  before  speaking. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I've 
already  used  the  plainest  words  of  which  I  have 
command." 

"Words  aren't  everything.  It's  the  way  they're 
spoken  that  often  counts  most.  I'm  sure  •  ou  could 
convince  him  if  you  went  the  right  way  to  work 
about  it." 

*'I  doubt  that.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  how  to 
force  conviction  on  any  one  against  his  will  " 

"You  mean—?" 

"  I  mean— you'll  excuse  me;  I  speak  quite  bluntly 
—I  mean  that  he  seemed  very  willing  to  believe 
anything  that  could  tell  against  you,  but  less  eager 
to  credit  what  was  said  in  your  defence." 

"You  think  so  because  you  don't  understand 
him.     As  a  matter  of  fact — " 

"Oh,  I  dare  say.  I  don't  pretend  to  under- 
stand the  gentleman  in  question.  But  for  that 
very  reason  it  would  be  useless  for  me  to  try  to 
enlighten  him  further.  It  would  only  make  mat- 
ters worse." 

"It  wouldn't  if  you'd  put  things  before  him 
just  as  they  happened.  I  don't  want  any  excuses 
made  for  me.  My  best  defence  would  be — the 
truth." 

231 


THE      INNER      SHRINS 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause,  during  which  hi* 
eyes  shifted  uneasily  toward  Marion  Grimston. 

"I  should  think  you  could  tell  him  that  your- 
self," he  suggested,  at  last. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  the  same  thing.  You're  the  only 
person  who  could  speak  with  authority.  He'd  ac- 
cept your  word,  if  you  gave  it — in  a  certain  way." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  what  that  way  it." 

"Oh  yes,  you  do,  Bienville!"  she  exclaimed, 
pleadingly,  leaning  forward  slightly,  with  her  hands 
dasrci  in  her  lap.  "Don't  force  me  to  speak 
more  plainly  than  I  need.  You  must  know  what  I 
refer  to." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly,  with  a  look  of  mysti- 
fication. 

"What  you  may  not  know,"  she  continued,  "is 
all  it  means  to  me.  I  won't  put  tin  .natter  on  any 
ground  but  that  of  my  need  for  earning  money. 
Because  Mr.  Pruyn  has — misunderstood  you,  I've 
had  to  give  up  my — my — pla.e" — she  forced  the 
last  word  with  a  little  difficulty — "and  until  some- 
thing like  a  good  name  is  restored  to  me  I  shall  find 
it  hard  to  get  another.  You  can  have  no  idea  of 
what  that  means.  I  had  none,  until  I  had  to  face 
it.  There's  only  one  kind  of  work  I'm  fitted  for — 
the  kind  I've  been  doing;  but  it's  just  the  kind  I 
can't  have  without  the — the  reputation  you  could 
pive  back  to  me." 

That  this  appeal  was  not  without  its  effect  wa» 
232 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

evident  from  the  way  in  which  his  expressive  brown 
eyes  clouded,  while  he  stroked  his  blacW  beard 
nervously.  The  fact  that  his  pity  was  largely  for 
himself— that  with  instincts  naturally  chivalrous 
he  should  be  driven  to  these  miserable  verbd  shifts 
—being  unknown  to  Diane,  she  was  encouraged 
to  proceed. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  eagerly,  "it  wouldn't 
only  bring  me  happiness,  but  it  would  add  to  your 
own.  You're  at  the  beginning  of  a  new  life,  just 
like  me— or,  rather,  just  as  I  could  be  if  you'd 
give  me  the  chance.  Think  what  it  would  be  for 
you  to  enter  on  it,  I  won't  say  with  a  clear  con- 
science, but  with  the  knowledge  that  in  rising  your- 
self you  had  helped  an  unhappy  woman  up,  instead 
of  thrusting  her  further  down  I  It  isn't  as  if  it 
would  be  so  hard  for  you,  Bienville.  I'd  make  it 
easy  for  you.  Miss  Grimston  would  help  me. 
Wouldn't  you  ?"  she  added,  turning  toward  Marion. 
"It  could  all  be  done  quite  simply  and  confidentially 
between  ourselves — and  Mr.  Pruyn." 

"Oh  no,  it  couldn't,"  he  said,  coldly.  "If  I 
were  to  admit  what  you  imply,  secrecy  wouldn't 
be  of  any  use  to  me." 

"Does  that  mean,"  she  asked,  fixing  her  earnest 
«y^  upon  him,  "that  you  don't  admit  it?" 

"It  means,"  he  said,  rising  quietly  and  standing 
behind  his  ohair,  "that  this  conversation  is  extreme- 
ly painful  to  me,  and  I  must  ask  to  be  excused  from 
233 


THE  ;  IXNLNJE  £  ,   S  M  R  I  N  E 


i! 


i 


li'  I 


taking  any  fbrjCheEpait  Hi  it.  I  know  only  vagudy 
what  you  niean^  Madame;  and  if  I  don't  inquirt 
more  in  detail,  it!s:  because  I  want  to  spare  you 
distressing  explanations.  I  think  you  must  agree 
with  me.  Mademoiselle,"  he  continued,  looking 
toward  Miss  Gnraaton,  "that  we  should  all  be  well 
advised  in  letting  the  subject  drop."  i  ;  ;  c^ 
Marion  carpe  skiwly  forward,  adviancing  tq!  the 
side  of- Diane,  lover  whose  shouWcr,  as  she  remiained 
ceaited,  she  allowed  hei  h«nd  to  fall,  in  a  pose  wg? 
^tiye  of  prdtectiori.  :     ::i! 

T,;'Ctf  course,  Monsieur," /she  agreed,  "w*;;i8u^ 
let)the,H>bject  drop,  if  you  Have  nothing  ^morcnftp 

Wtf"'       \  '::  .:i  •^.^\-  ->:\'.:  A:      /.■''.'  :,--;i-m:v 

L.- He  Stood  stknta  msfms,  looking  at  her  steadij^ 
j;  'fl'm  afraid  I hdvenV  he  said,  theiu  ■.■.[;  V 
11  "Nor  l,t  Miss  Griitistim  returned,  signifiesindyi 
.0  Ag^in  ithere  was  »  minute  or  two  of  silence,  duB- 
ing  which  BienviUe  aeetoed  to.  probe  for  thertteai^ 
inig :  of.,  the  two  latontci  woiiEds.  If  anything  ooiild 
be  read  from  his  ccfuotefoajnce,  it  was  doubt  aa  40 
Ivhether.tfa  hilinquish  die'ptize  with  dignity  or  to 
pay  its  price  in  hu^iation.  There  was  an  instant 
in  which  he  appeared  to  be  bracing  himself  to  d6 
the  ktter;  but  whcrt  he  spbke  his  interrogition 
direw  the  respansibiJitje  for  decision  on  Mife|  fjni^ 

Jjtbn.i'.v.  Ijrui   /Irji.'i'  '..J  ■.  ,:   .  .  ■.  ,;.;i;-j.';i  j[" 

-j.^'HavelreceiTed— my  answer ?"  .   '^  S'ji 

.11  She  waitol,  finding  it  hard  to  give  himhis  2epi}l, 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

It  was  as  if  forced  to  it  against  her  will  that  her 
head  bent  slowly  in  assent. 

"Then,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  dignified  regret, 
"there's  nothing  for  me  but  to  wish  Mademoiselle 
good-by." 

He  bowed  separately  fD  Miss  (^nmston  and  to 
Diane,  and,  with  the  self-possession  of  a  man 
MCiistoaiei}  tQ  tjj^  vacious  Ulcus  of  drawingt^aosi 

^^V00»tMM%^,V3ptli,,  \  ■ ,,  ,..,,-■:  ...,^-  ^1 
r.u\\:i)U'--  ri-j')7  !  yrini'Ti-vj.-iiiiiit;;  Lt,.  rioirii  r.  jth 
'grubjt  >!:!  ;Iuv/  bsiii'ifri'i.)  -n-^h  io  •j-'.ioi  dill  :'ii( 
min-o^.-^T.  -A  .;rj;T3;ic  it!?  ;  ■u.ic.Tr  n)  ■.■jir\r-n-\\>''u- 
2^:3;;. ii;-...-/  V.J  v;;:;  jr!  ,"A\  r!;.//  /'li/ijirii 

-   -'iiCO.I    ,•;    ■<.    r',isA    hi.:!    :,-!    !; 

Wj':.,:    I./iu:i;,i    ;iii,v    r 
;i;in;;  -j-!,  ^i^i  ia  !I,;  t 


■  ;;■  jT. 
,.  r 


■•'X  i-A\  no 

■::    ;.-;r  'Io 

'■■  \    n    7ii  ;■,  Villi 

.1    ii:    r:jv:    j/Kii 

nil  Vi'-A  .'!!  fiiorj  07i;(i  oi  ju^i    .j'^iuori)  noi.iiii.irnijii 

(br.lErn  Iinrijrn  lE-iit  viTiv  bf.iiij  .-ij;i.-iu7/ 'u,  fi..^  :i-.r|] 

•■ju^KV  ■j;!t  7.ii;;o2d  ".nnrnoT/'to  no,-  ;;;rir'  Ijii;,-  all 

!o  jwni.-i,:   .>(!,   o?  o-w;,;-   i7.;y  ixnn   eri:  "io  ?«,■ 

ijrl  iriij;!  Tiv/o  o;  bai;;  tj;!  :!■,!.!//  i;:i  7  j!i;,n;[p3^a: 

^  r.Kql.j  •3.  iLinr..-;  i!iui  afn.v  •,:(-.;]  j  o:  i,ii';  Ljicic-a  ll 

'  obaaCi  L::,:  olJ-ifliO  u-  ^Ijjo^  at!'  i!.:.;  7  ojfii  3!;fl3  ?i; 

:    HmJ    J/!    Ll.iT        .::-.>[•  ;;/0)    ^f;'Jj    l,7,,;,    I.i^:^!    CflOfl: 

/;  )Tj':}orns  ^.7,..i  nA:A\?^  bi;jov,'  jii  :;;,i:;)/  '-o  -00!/ 
■■•jJi.Gi!  i-j.)'/  7/^/;  K  .^rue-J  7fH  ;  7oi'.q  .;  -Xv.  n  iji 
!j::;-  ,:jyi  j.o,;;/  ,'r^i.M,  ,,!i  ._,.;;  ,j,  ,.;  v!;,,:,  [_,i^o3  ^d 
'i:  ;!7. ;■;..]«!,  TK]  o<;  n:ia  b-jJaj.M,ri  I'l/jri  bBrI  ■j-.no,- 
j;i-:s  j;:iii  , :;  -£/?  nX  ^^nnP^'w  ■  '\t-  i'.;--  ;■!;!  ,'\      .-nun 


BE  /:iin 


XVII 

DURING  the  summer  that  followed  these  events 
Derek  Pruyn  set  himself  the  task  of  stamping 
the  memoiy  and  influence  of  Diane  Eveleth  out  of  his 
life.  His  sense  of  duty  combined  with  his  feelings 
of  self-respect  in  making  the  attempt.  In  reflecting 
on  his  last  interview  with  her,  he  saw  the  weakness 
of  the  stand  he  had  taken  in  it,  recoiling  from  so 
unworthy  a  position  with  natural  reaction.  To 
have  been  in  love  at  all  at  his  age  struck  him  as 
humiliation  enough;  but  to  have  been  in  love  with 
that  sort  of  woman  came  very  near  mental  malady. 
He  said  "that  sort  of  woman,"  because  the  vague- 
ness of  the  term  gave  scope  to  the  bitterness  of 
resentment  with  which  he  tried  to  overwhelm  her. 
It  enabled  him  to  create  some  such  paradise  of  pair- 
as  that  into  which  the  souls  of  Othello  and  Desde- 
mona  might  have  gone  together.  Had  he  been  a 
Moor  of  Venice  he  would  doubtless  have  smothered 
her  with  a  pillow;  but  being  a  New  York  banker 
he  could  only  try  to  slay  the  image,  whose  eyes  and 
voice  had  never  haunted  him  so  persistently  as 
now.  In  his  rags  of  suffering  he  was  as  little  able 
236 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

ro  ^a!re  a  reasoned  view  of  the  situaaon  as  the  mad- 
daied  buii  ii.  rKe  arena  to  appraise  the  skill  of  hit 
tormentors. 

When  in  the  middle  of  May  he  had  retired  lo 
Rhinefields  it  was  with  the  intention  of  laying  waste 
all  that  Diane  had  left  behind  in  the  course  of  her 
brief  passage  through  his  life.  The  ptocess  being 
easier  in  the  exterior  phases  ot  existence  than  in 
those  more  secret  and  remote,  he  determined  to 
work  from  the  outside  inward.  Wherever  any- 
thing reminded  him  of  her,  he  erased,  desr"iyed,  or 
removed  it.  All  that  she  had  rhan^d  within  the 
house  he  put  back  into  the  state  in  which  it  was 
before  she  came.  Where  he  had  followed  her  sug- 
gestions about  the  grounds  and  gardens  he  re- 
versed the  orders.  Taken  as  outward  and  visible 
signs  of  the  inward  and  spiritual  change  he  was 
trying  to  create  within  himself,  these  childish  acts 
gave  him  a  passionate  satisfaction.  In  a  short 
time,  he  boasted  to  himself,  he  would  have  obliter- 
ated all  trace  of  her  presence. 

And  so  lie  came,  in  time,  to  giving  his  attention 
to  Dorothea.  She,  too,  bore  the  impress  of  Diane; 
and  as  she  bore  it  more  markedly  than  the  inani- 
mate things  around,  it  caused  him  the  greater  pain. 
He  could  forbid  her  to  hold  intercourse  with  Diane, 
and  to  speak  of  her;  but  he  could  not  control  the 
blending  of  French  and  Irish  intonations  her  voice 
had  caught,  or  the  gestures  into  which  she  slipped 
••  237 


t  H  E     J  N  N  B  R      S  H  R  J  N  B 

thirbiigh  youth's  mimetic  instinct.  In  happier  days 
Yit  had  been  amused  to  note  the  degree  to  which 
Dorothea  had  become  the  unconscious  copy  of 
Diane;  but  now  this  constant  reproduction  of  hei 
nrays  was  torture.  Telling  himself  that  it  was  not 
the  child's  fault,  he  bore  it  at  first  with  what  self- 
restraint  he  could;  but  as  solitude  encouraged 
brooding  thoughts,  he  found,  as  the  summer  wore 
on,  that  his  stock  of  patience  was  running  low. 
There  were  times  when  some  chance  sentence  or 
imitated  bit  of  mannerism  on  Dorothea's  part  al- 
most drew  from  him  that  which  in  tragedy  would 
be  a  cry,  but  which  in  our  smaller  life  becomes  the 
kasty  or  exasperated  word. 

In  diese  circumstances  the  explosion  was  boura 
t«  come;  and  one  day  it  produced  itself  unexpect- 
edly, and  about  nothin]^  Thinking  of  it  afterw  aid 
Derek  was  unable  to  say  why  it  should  have  takerc 
place  then  more  than  at  any  other  time.  He  wa» 
standing  on  the  lawn,  nodng  with  savage  comr 
placency  that  the  bit  by  which  he  had  enlarged  it^ 
at  Diane's  prompting,  had  grown  up  again,  in 
hixuriartt  grass,  ••hen  Dorothea  descended  the 
steps  of  the  Georgian  brick  house,  behind  him. 

"  Would  you  be  afther  wantin'  me  to-day  ?"  she 
called  out,  using  the  Irish  expression  Diane  affected 
if  moments  of  fun. 

"Dorothea,"  he  cried,  sharply,  wheding  round 
on  her,  "drop  that  idiotic  Way  of  speaking.  If  yov 
Z38 


THE     IM  N  M  R     S  H  R  J  N  E 

think  it's  amusing,  you'ps  mi^talcen.    You  can't 
even  do  it  properly." 

The  words  were  nc  soonei  out  than  he  regretted 
them,  but  it  was  too  late  to  take  them  back.  More- 
over, when  a  man,  nervously  suffering,  has  once 
wounded  the  feehngs  of  one  he  loves,  it  is  not 
infrequently  his  instinct  to  go  on  and  wound  them 
again. 

"  We  have  enough  of  that  sort  of  language  from 
the  servants  and  the  stable-boys.  Be  good  enough 
in  future  to  use  your  mother-tongue." 

Standing  where  his  words  had  stopped  her,  a 
few  yards  away,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  the  clear 
gaze  of  astonishment;  but  the  slight  shrug  of  the 
shoulden  before  she  spoke  was  also  a  trick  caught 
from  Diane,  and  not  calculated  to  allay  his  ani- 
noyance. 

"Very  well,  father,"  she  answered,  with  a  quiet- 
ness mdicating  judgment  held  in  reserve,  "I  won't 
do  it  again.  I  only  meant  to  ask  you  if  you  want 
me  for  anything  in  particular  to-day;  otherwise  I 
shall  go  over  and  lunch  at  the  Thoroughgoods'." 
"The  Thoroughgoods'  again?  Can't  you  get 
through  a  day  widiouf  going  there?" 

"I  suppose  I  could  if  it  was  necessary;  but  it 
isn't." 

"I  think  it  is.    You'll  do  well  not  lO  wear  out 
your  welcome  anywhere." 
"I'm  not  afraid  of  that." 
2  to 


!■  1- 


^  H£     INNER      SHRINE 

"Then  I  arc;  so  you'd  better  stay  at  home." 

He  wheeled  from  he<-  as  sharply  as  he  had  turned 
cO  confront  her,  striding  off  loward  a  wild  border, 
where  he  tried  to  conceal  the  extent  to  which  he 
was  ashamed  of  his  ill  temper  by  pretending  to  be 
engrossed  in  the  efforts  of  a  bee  to  work  its  way  into  a 
blue  cowl  of  monk's-hood.  When  he  looked  around 
again  she  was  still  standing  where  he  had  left  her, 
her  eyes  clouded  by  an  expression  of  wondering 
pain  that  smote  him  to  the  heart. 

Had  he  possessed  sufficient  mastery  of  himself 
he  would  have  gone  back  and  begged  her  pardon, 
and  sent  her  away  to  enjoy  herself.  It  was  what  he 
wanted  to  do;  but  the  tension  of  his  nerves  seemed 
to  get  relief  from  the  innocent  thing's  suffering. 
The  very  fact  that  her  pretty  litde  face  was  set 
with  his  own  obstinacy  of  self-will,  while  behind  it 
her  spirit  was  rising  against  this  capricious  tyranny, 
goaded  him  into  persistence.  He  remembered  how 
often  Diane  had  told  him  that  Dorothea  could  be 
neither  led  nor  driven;  she  could  only  be  "man- 
aged"; but  he  would  show  Diane,  he  would  show 
himself,  that  she  could  be  both  driven  and  led,  and 
that  "management"  should  go  the  way  of  the 
wall-fruit  and  the  roses. 

As,  recrossing  the  lawn,  he  made  as  though  he 

would  pass  her  without  further  words,  he  was  an 

excellent  illustration  of  the  degree  to  which   the 

tdult  man  of  (he  world,  capable  of  taking  an  impor- 

240 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

lant  part  among  his  fellow-men,  can  be,  at  times, 
nothing  but  an  overgrown  infant.  It  was  not  sur- 
prising, however,  that  Dorothea  should  not  see  this 
aspect  of  his  personality,  or  look  upon  his  com- 
mands as  other  than  those  of  an  unreasonable 
despotism. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "I  can't  go  on  living  like 
this."  ^ 

"Living  like  what?" 

"Living  as  we've  lived  all  this  summer." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  summer?  It's  like 
any  other  summer,  isn't  it  ?" 

"The  summer  may  be  like  any  other  summer; 
but  you're  not  like  yourself.  I  do  everything  I  can 
ro  please  you,  but — " 

"You  needn't  do  anything  to  please  me  but  what 
you're  told." 

"  I  always  do  what  I'm  told— when  you  tell  me; 
but  you  only  tell  me  by  fits  and  starts." 

"Then,  I  tell  you  now:  you're  not  to  go  to  the 
Thoroughgoods'." 

"  But  they  expect  me.  I  said  I'd  go  to  lunch. 
They'll  think  it  very  strange  if  I  don't" 

"They'll  think  what  they  please.  It's  enou^ 
for  you  to  know  what  I  think." 

"  But  that's  just  what  I  don't  know.  Ever  since 
Diane  went  away — " 

"Stop  that!    I've  forbidden  you  to  speak — " 

"But  you  can't  forbid  me  to  think;  and  I  think 
441 


I-' I' 

«;:    ;  I 


I 


I 


tflT  I'm  uttierly  bewildered.  You  d<wi*t  tipfstJti  any-' 
tHipg'to  me.  Yqu  hayen'tj^ver^  told  irie  why  she' 
went  aiway.    If  I  ask  a'  questibri  yoii  yi'!bti'i  ms^^MB 

•-liK  i  -:n  :  :■-  ^.■i'.,i  lu  ,;;:;;;  .O'l'jn  ,':rt  to  .''jiq-ji; 
^^  '  ''  '  '  t  \      ' 

"'  "Wfcat'i^  nectesaty  M  y6u'  td  tndw,'  yoii  citt '  di^' 
pep4  on  nje  to  tell  you.  Anything  I  don't  etplain 
to'youi  you  may  distniSs  fronir  youf  mind."  ' '  " 

"But  that's  not  reasonable,  father;  it's  not  pos- 
sible. If  you  want  rpe.to.obey  you,  Imust  thow 
what  I'fa  d6ing.  BeC'ai^e'l  dori't  ktaijw  whait.I'm 
d6iiig,^I  haven't-^ ■■':    ''".  '''''"  "'■'  '''':"  ' 

"You  haven't  obeyedii^?"  he  asled;  qWckly.' 
■""N^bt  entirely.    ,1^6  niestnt  to  tfeU  you  when  an 
Mt'asiofi  offered,  s6  rmi^iWs.w^  46  ft  iio#.  I've 
written  to  Diane."  ,  :  '    ';  '  ,, 

He  strode  up  to  her  and  caught  her  by'ihe^hn. 
iiUai  'n6i  '^ange  that  she  ihbiiiid  tafetf  ihe  khirious 
light  in  his  ficei  foi;  tftit  bf  irtgei';  bWt.'a'hlbrft  ttc- 
pe^^iic^  bbservei'  ivbiJd  li^d' seen  yiat  mj  dis- 
tipct  emotion?  qrpwded  on  each  odl^f.-^''-^'''  ":  ' 
"■"ne'  Wrmeh ' t<i  her  Wia^,"'- Ddnithea  Veijiiited, 
defiantly,,  as  he  held'Ke^'!iitth,'"",She'didh't  re|ily 
to  me— buH  wrote,' ,     ,    ,       ,  ,     ■ 

"What,  for?  ,     .   ,       I  .  , 

''^"'ti'idl  herWt'11oWa>^-^ihat'ii6  itbuble 
should,  keep  me  from  loving,  her;^ritf  iHatter  what 

tt  was,       '         ,    .  ,  ■  I     '    -1    • 

^''m  Vle'^S^sed  h<i^  a'riii;'  ittj^Aife'^bad;'  frbm  her 

all 


TUB   .IM  N'M  S.  /.  &M  R  I  NS 

to  conceal  under  a  scowling  t>row.  Th^  rigidity 
of  her  attitude,  the!  Wt  of  hef  head,  the,  set.of  her 
lips,  the;  directness  of  heri^afice,  pu^estpdj  not 
merely  rebellion  against  his  will,  but  the  assertion 
o£  her  own.  It  occurred  t«  him  then  that  k^  cpuld 
break  her  little  body  to  pieces  before  he  could  fofc^ 
her  to  yield;  an4  l|i  hi*  pride  in  thip  temperar 
ment,  so  like  his  own,  he  almost  uttered  the  cty  pf 
"Braval"  that  hiiing  on  his  lip?..  Hf  m^ht  h^ve 
done  so  if  Oorotheahad  not  fowd  it  a  convenient! 
moment  at  wlvch  to  maJEe  all !  her  confessionft 
an.  once  and  have  them  off'  her  nund.  It;  \r^t 
bfiJt  to  do  iti  she  thoughi^i  i»Ois  that,. her  coti^ag^ 
1r*s-:up. 

.  "And,  fatheiT,"  she  went  oin,,  "it,may  b*  a  goo4 
oppOrtumity  ti^  tell  you  soniethiflg;  els*,;  I'n  i^ 
«aded,to  »any  Mr.rWs(ppii>g«r/;':  ui  ■  ■.  ■.-.,.  :„:ii 
During  the  brief  silence  that  foUojwed  this  at)r 
pojjnwmeht  h«  had,  mne  to, throw  the  hi^mp  for  it 
upon  Diane,  Using  the  fact  a^  pftf ;  jnore  ai^^umwit 
against  her.  Had  she  taken  his;  SMgge^Ons  at  t^ 
be^Boing,  and  suppressied  theWappittget  a^\is(ii^. 
an«r  this  distressing  folly  would  have,  r^ceiy^d  ,« 
definite  check.  As  it  was,  the  odium  of  putting  » 
«top.  to  it,  which  must  bow  &U  on  i«n,  was  but  Mo 
>dditio<)al  part: of  the  penalty/he  had  t<>  pay  fp^ 
eVcf  h»vii»g  known  ben    So^  b«  iti' :  He  wo^d  maJM) 


THE      INNER^4,HRINB 

i'-- -^ 

die  same  sort  of  frenzied  salsfacdon  i»ia  defacing 
Diane's  image  in  his  heart. 

"You  shall  not,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"I  don't  understand  how  you're  going  to  stop 
me. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  be  paOilht — and  see.  You 
can  make  a  beginning  to-day,  by  staying  at  home 
from  the  Thoroughgoods*.  That  will  be  enough 
for  the  minute." 

Fearing  to  look  any  longer  into  her  indignant  ^es, 
he  passed  on  toward  the  stables.  For  some  min- 
utes she  stood  still  where  he  left  her,  while  the  collie 
gazed  up  at  her,  with  twitching  tail  and  question- 
ing regard,  as  though  to  ask  the  meaning  of  this 
futile  hesitation;  but  when,  at  last,  she  turned 
ilowly  and  re-entered  the  house,  one  would  have 
•aid  that  the  "dainty  rogue  in  porcelain"  had  been 
transformed  into  an  intensely  modem  little  creature 
made  of  steel. 

She  did  not  go  to  the  Thoroughgoods'  that  day, 
Aor  was  any  further  reference  made  to  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  morning.  Compunction  having  suc- 
ceeded irritation,  with  the  rapidity  not  uncommon 
to  men  of  his  character,  Derek  was  already  seeking 
lome  way  of  reaching  his  end  by  gentler  means, 
when  a  new  move  on  Dorothea's  part  exasperated 
him  still  further.  As  he  was  about  to  sit  down  to 
his  luncheon  on  the  following  day,  the  butler  made 
the  announcement  that  Miss  Pruyn  had  asked  him 
244 


THE      I 


l¥^^E 


R      SHRINE 


to  inform  ner  father  rfiat  she  had  driven  over  in 
the  pon^-cart  to  Mrs.  Thoroughgood's,  and  would 
not  be  home  till  late  in  the  afternoon. 

He  was  not  in  the  house  when  she  returned,  and 
at  dinner  he  refrained  from  conversation  till  the 
servants  had  left  the  room. 

"So  it's— war,"  he  said,  then,  speaking  in  a 
casual  tone,  and  toying  with  his  wine-glass. 

"I  hope  nor,  father,"  she  answered,  promptly, 
making  no  pretence  not  to  understand  him.  "It 
takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel,  and — " 

"Ana  you  wculdn't  be  one?" 

"I  was  goinji  vo  *;\y  ;h?«  I  hoped  you  wouldn't 
be." 

"But  you  yourself  would  tig;-..  ' 

"I  should  have  to.  I'm  fighting  ic.  liber;, 
which  is  always  an  honorable  motive.  You're 
fighting  to  take  it  away  from  me — ' 

"Which  is  a  dishonorable  mouvt.  Veiy  well; 
I  must  accept  that  imputation  as  best  I  may,  and 
still  go  on." 

"Oh,  then,  it  is  war.     You  mean  to  make  it  so." 

"I  mean  to  do  my  duty.  You  may  call  your 
rebellion  against  it  what  you  like." 

"I'm  not  accustomed  to  rebel,"  she  said,  with 
significant  quietness.  "  Only  people  who  feel  them- 
selves weak  do  that." 

And  are  you  so  strong  V 

"I'm  very  strong.    I  don't  want  to  measure  07 
«45 


T  J?  E     IN  N  E  R     S  H  RJNB 

stravgth  against  yours,  fatherrbut  if  you  insist  on 
measuring  yours  against  miiMyl  •!  nought  ta<  tpafii 
you."  lu -jid  ir.j -jr        >  I  sen 

"Hiankyou.  It's  in  the-^heofa^iniming-ifcat 
I  view  your  action  to-day.  You  i^baUy  w«iit  to 
meet  Mr.  Wappinger."  si  li. 

In  saying  this  his  bow  was  drawn»«Bl  entirely  at 
a  venture  that  he  was  astonished  at.the  skill  with 
which  he  hit  the  mark. 
'"I  did."  .  ,:, 

He  pushed  back  his  chair;  half  rose;  sat  down 
a^in;  poured  out  a  ^ass  of  Marsala;  drank  it 
thiretiiy;  and  looked  at  her  a  second  or  two  m 
helpless  distress  before  finding  words.  -i 

"And  you  talk  of  honorable  motives  1" 
.   "My  motive  was  endtely  honorable.    I  wettt  to 
cxplani  to  himithat  I  couldn't  see  him  any  more~« 
just  now."  -i 

, i!*' While  you  wwe  about  it  you  might  as  well 
have,  said  neititer  just  now— nor  at  any  otfaet 
time." 

''■She  was  silent  3-.  :jo'/     a...;    ■    ■  ..i-jiii  .riO" 
V  "Do  you  bear  P'  :    '  r  n   I' 

"Yes;  I  hear,  fat&et.^  li'.'si:  jt 

hi^Ajid  you  understand?"  ro;  rr.  I' 

trifl;  understand  what  yt)u  mean:"       r  "  :r-.':i/'v;,- 

"And  you  promise  me  that  it  shall  be  so??'   i.;^ 

"No,  fadier." 
J'  "You  ny  that  deCbevately  ?    SxmeBiber.  Tm 
246 


asking  y<Hi.an  impowaat  que«iqn,  and  yau'n  flr- 
ing  qjp  an  e<}ua%iinp«)rtant  reply."  i 

'  atirecognwe  «^«f },  ^t  I  can't  give  you  any  otb«r 
ItfPWPf^  i;i,ur;r;!";  ■>,■)  r-  ■  ■ 
ii:rW»^,m^r  H©  pished  back  his  chair  again. 
awJrose.  fl^had  already  crossed  the  room,  when, 
a  new  thoughfepccurring  to  him,  he  turned  at  the 
4qor.  At  leftst  I  presume  I  may  count  on  yo« 
^^t_^to  see  this  young  am  again  without  teUing 

''Not  without  telling  you-^fterward.    I  couldn't 
uaderuke  more  than  that" 

«tu"'"t'      ^*    ejaculated,    before    passing    out; 
Ihen  I  must  take  active  measures." 
It  was  easier,  however,   to  talk  about  attive 
measures  than  to  devise  them.    While  Dorothea 
was  sobbing,  with  her  elbows  on  the  dining-room 
table,  and  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  he  wai 
pacmg  his  room  in  search  of  desperate  remedies, 
it  was  a  case  in  which  his  nund  turned  instinctively 
to  Diane  for  help;   but  in  the  very  act  of  doing  so 
he  was  confronted  by  her  theories  as  to  Dorothea'* 
need  of  diplomatic  guidance.    For  that,  he  told 
himself,  the  time  was  past.    The  event  had  proved 
how  impotent  mere  "management"  was  to  control 
he^  and  justified  his  own  preference  for  force. 

Before  she  went  to  bed  that  night  Dorothea  was 
summoned  to  her  father's  presence,  to  receive  the 
commands  which  should  regulate  her  conduct  tow- 
247 


^w 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

«rd  "the  young  man  Wappinger."  They  could 
have  been  summed  up  in  the  statement  that  she 
must  know  him  no  more.  She  was  not  only  never 
to  see  him,  or  write  to  him,  or  communicate  with 
him,  by  direct  or  indirect  means;  as  far  as  he  could 
command  it,  she  was  not  to  think  of  him,  or  re- 
member his  name.  His  measures  grew  more  drastic 
in  proportion  as  he  gave  them  utterance,  until  he 
himself  become  aware  that  they  would  be  difficult 
to  fulfil. 

"I  will  not  attempt  no  extract  a  promise  from 
you,"  he  was  prudent  enough  to  say,  in  conclusion, 
"that  you  will  carry  out  my  wishes,  because  I  know 
you  would  never  bring  on  me  the  unhappiness  that 
would  spring  from  disobedience." 

"It's  hardly  fair,  father,  to  say  that,"  she  replied, 
firmly.  "In  war,  no  one  should  shrink  from — the 
misfortunes  of  war." 

"That  means,  then,  that  you  defy  me?" 

She  was  calmer  than  he  as  she  made  her  reply. 

"It  doesn't  mean  that  I  defy  you.  I  love  you 
too  much  to  put  either  you  or  myself  in  such  an 
odious  position  as  that.  But  it  does  mean  that  one 
day,  sooner  or  later,  I  shall  marry — Mr.  Wap- 
pinger." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"I  admire  your  frankness,  Dorothea,"  he  said, 
after  a  brief  pause,  "and  I  shall  do  my  best  to 
imitate  it.    If  it's  to  be  war,  we  shall  at  least  fight 
94S 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

in  the  open.  I  know  what  you  intend  to  do,  and 
you  know  that  I  mean  to  circumvent  you.  The 
position  on  both  sides  being  so  pleasantly  dear, 
you  may  come  and  kiss  me  good-night." 

During  the  process  of  the  stiff  litde  embrace  thai 
followed  It  was  as  difficult  for  her  not  to  fling  her- 
self sobbing  on  his  breast  as  for  him  not  to  seize 
her  m  his  arms;  but  each  maintained  the  restraint 
inspired  by  the  justice  of  their  respective  causes. 
When  she  had  closed  the  door  behind  her,  he  stood 
for  a  long  time,  musing.  That  his  thoughts  were 
not  altogether  tragic  became  manifest  as  his  brow 
cleared,  and  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  this  time  without 
bitterness,  hovered  about  his  lips.  Suddenly  he 
slapped  his  leg,  like  a  man  who  has  made  a  dis- 
covery. 

"By  Gad!"  he  whispered,  half  aloud,  "when  all 
u  said  and  done,  she  knows  how  to  play  the  game!" 


^ 


>v   d.    A 


\\   T 


1 


.TEsb   vjjfiiiir.-jlq   o:;  -^r\hd   .'oWi-.    i';:><l    no   nobiaoq 
■  Eilj  5or;vJf:;3  jijjii 'i!ii?  jrii 'to  s^jjinq  3/I7  aniiuCl 


•13.4  "mil  ui  .oi 


X¥HI 


fj  .;c  ic  //  n  b;)'.'. 


ij'.vollo't 


rr  wasv  perhaps^  the.  bxnrledge  that  Ootodwa 
could; play^tbe  game  diat  enabled  Derek,  during 
the  rest  of  the  suthtner,  to:  play  it  himself.  THfs 
Jie  did  without  ifiindHingjufindnig  strength! in  the 
£ict  tJiat,  as  time  rwenti  (Mi;  DonnJiea  seenied  to 
muAr  intahis  pjanfaiand  siibmitjta  his  judgmerit 
aEhoifirM!  few  weeks  !df  ipaliar  Smd  silence  having 
'ptls~ed>:she  resdmni'hcr.acoustomed  Ways,  land,  is 
far  as  he  could  tell,  grew  cheerful.  Always  having 
iisedit^d'  'heciwitblcaniraoirfseiuei^'he'was)  pleased 
Hamitfi  sae  heqmakefluse'faf^aeiiii.a.Wa^.orf'iwhicfa 
few  girls  of  nineteen  would  have  been  capable. 
She  accepted  his  surveillance  with  so  much  docility 
that,  by  the  time  they  returned  to  town  in  the 
autumn  he  was  able  to  congratula..e  himself  on  his 
success. 

On  her  part,  Dorothea  carried  out  his  instructions 
to  the  letter.  Notwithstanding  the  opening  of  the 
season  and  the  renewal  of  the  usual  gayeties,  she 
lived  quietly,  accepting  few  invitations,  and  rarely 
going  into  society  at  all,  except  under  her  father's 
wing.     On  those  accidental  occasions  when  Carli 

2jO 


THE      INNER      S  fT  P   r  at  p 

Wappinger  came  within  their  range  of  vision,  it 
was  only  as  a  distant  ship  drifts  intfsight  at  sel-L 
to  dnft  silendy  away  again.  If  Dorothea  per- 
OMved  him,  she  gave  no  sign.  I.  was  dear  to  Derek 
Aat  her  spun  of  rebellion  was  over,  and  that  h« 
htde  experience  had  done  her  no  harm.    The  name 

SIS'T  ''''"^  T'^y  'snored  between  d,em. 
he  could  only  express  his  pleasure,  in  die  results  he 
had  achieved,  by  an  extravagant  increase  of  Do,<v 

ut  ST"'''f"*'e'^"  of  inappropriate  jewels. 
It  would  have  taken  a  more  weadiemise  person 

^'"stol' wfsTre:;;rg'''^^  ""'  '-''^^^- 

M^^t^°''  ^^*---S  —  came  to 

cla3\'lT,"°*i"«  ^'^  ^'"'^  "o^-g."  ''he  de- 
cured,  m  her  emphatic  way.  to  Diane.  "  but  I  know 
something  is  going  on."  "mmow 

of  Ae'lll 'fl  "  ^'^P'T''"-  They  sat  in  the  shade 
of  the  coolflag-paved  pergola  at  Waterwild.  Mrs 

sS*  K  ^"  '  P'^f"  °"  ^"S  ^'''=*"''-    The  tea-table 

cSl  T^m  ^'r*  ''"i*'^  '°""^^''  •"  --'^^ 

was  a  view  of  terraced  lawns  descending  toward 
d^e  sea  Between  the  slighdy  overcrowded  um. 
and  statues  there  were  bright  dashes  of  color.  hZ 
ofdahhas  ,n  full  bloom,  there  of  reddening  garland^ 
of  ampelopsis  or  Virginia  creeper.  It  IL  wS 
asi 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

Mrs.  Wappinger  called  an  "off-day,"  otherwise  she 
could  not  have  had  Diane  at  Waterwild.  In  her 
loyalty  toward  the  deserted  woman  she  seized  those 
opportunities  when  Carli  was  away,  and  she  was 
cenain  of  having  no  other  guests,  "to  have  the 
poor  thing  down  for  the  day,  and  give  her  a  good 
meal." 

Not  that  people  occupied  themselves  with  Diane 
or  her  affairsl  Her  place  in  the  hurrying,  scram- 
bling social  throng  had  been  so  unobtrusive  that, 
now  that  she  no  longitr  filled  it,  she  was  easily  fop- 
gotten.  Among  the  few  who  paid  her  the  tribute 
of  recollection  there  was  the  generally  received  im- 
pression that  Derek  Pruyn,  having  discovered  her 
relations  with  the  Marquis  de  Bienville— relations 
which,  so  they  said,  had  been  well  known  in  Paris,  in 
the  days  when  she  was  still  some  one — ^had  dismissed 
her  from  her  position  in  his  household.  That  was 
natural  enough,  and  there  was  no  further  reason 
for  remembering  her.  Having  disappeared  into 
the  limbo  of  the  unfortunate,  she  was  as  far  beyond 
the  mental  range  of  those  who  retained  their  bless- 
ings as  souls  that  have  passed  are  out  of  sight  of 
men  and  women  who  still  walk  the  earth.  For  this 
very  reason  she  called  out  in  Mrs.  Wappinger  that 
motherly  good-nature  which  was  only  partially 
warped  by  the  ambition  for  social  success  On 
more  than  one  of  her  "off-days"  she  had  lured 
Diane  out  of  her  refuge  in  University  Place,  treat- 
252 


THE      INNER      S  ff  I,   r  ^r  p 

2  t'ult  t  *'  ''•"'""'  '^'  «»""  •'««'-  -•*- 

«.t  causing  disparaging  comment  upon  herself, 
of  her  company  because  of  the  fact  that,  as  she  ex- 
Son."   '^"''   '''  ''''   "-"red'somti^g 

ini'tni  '""  ^°"*1!.  **  '"P^'"^'  "I'^«  heard  noth. 
•ng.  and  seen  nothing;  I've  just  sniffed  it.  If  you 
were  to  ask  me  how.  I  couldn't  explain    t  to  y^^ 

climbmg  hehotrope.     But  I  do  get  it-    and  I  d„ 

t^d^toTut"/^^"*^-^-•-ia:lL^^ 

'declared'^^"tr'*"^  ''*^"^"  ^"-  ^appinger 
Deripn.  '^  r"  ""^^  ^'''^e  ™y  word  L  it 
of  ^.  T  r  T"  '  "'"Sate  to  himself  the  powers 
of  the  Lord  aboye  any  more  than  we  can.  If  h" 
dunks  he  can  stop  young  blood  from  runnin..  he'll 
nnd  out  he's  wrong."  " 

hadTL"^'  *'"  '"'""°"  "*■'"■*  "'•'"^  A"  Diane 
ha^/r  u".'"''"^  ^^''^'  ="«'  «  'he  sound  her 
hand  trembled  in  such  a  way  that  she  was  obliged 
JO  pt  ^^own  untasted  the  cup  she  had  half  raSS 

say-^«Lr  T  ""^""'^  f  ^"•"  ^'•''  '■°"«'J  voice  «o 
say^      he  s  only  a  mistaken  one.     He  has  one  rf 
those  natures  capable  of  dealing  magnificently^  J 
"  *53 


THE      INNER 


SHRINE 


great  affairs,  but  helpless  in  the  trivial  matters  of 
eyeiy  day.  He's  like  the  people  who  see  well  at  a 
distance,  but  become  confused  over  the  objects 
right  under  their  eyes." 

.  "Then  the  farther  you  keep  away  from  that  man 
the  better  the  view  he'll  take  of  you.  It's  what  I'd 
•ay  to  Carli  if  he'd  ask  for  my  advice." 

"Does  that  mean,"  Diane  ventured  to  inquire, 
"that  you  don't  want  him  to  many  Dorothea  ?" 

"  I  certainly  do  not,  If  there  were  no  other  rea- 
■on,  she's  the  sort  of  girl  to  make  me  put  one  foot 
bto  the  grave,  whether  I  want  to  or  no;  and  it 
stands  to  reason  that  I  don't  want  to  be  squelched 
one  hour  before  my  time." 

"Naturally;  but  I  fancy  you'd  find  her  a  sweeter 
girl  than  you  might  suppose." 

"So  she  may  be,  dear;  but  I've  spent  too  much 
money  on  Carli  to  wish  to  see  him  force  his  way 
into  a  family  where  he  isn't  wanted." 

This  was  the  text  of  Mrs.  Wappinger's  discourse, 
not  only  on  the  present  occasion,  but  on  the  sub- 
sequent "off-days,"  when  Diane  was  induced  to 
visit  Waterwild. 

"Whatever  is  going  on,  Reggie  Bradford's  in 
It, '  she  confided  to  Diane  some  few  weeks  later. 
"Is  that  the  fat  young  man  with  the  big  laugh  ?" 
Yes;    and  one  of  the  greatest  catches  in  New 
YorL    Carli  tells  me  he's  wild  about  Marion  Grim- 
Won,  and  I  can  see  for  myself  that  Mrs.  Bayfotd 
a54 


THE      INNER      S  fT  P   r  ^r  u> 

ihi'd£!f'"'r  '^''" u  '^"i  f""--"-'""""-    She'll  get 

"It's  a  pretty  safe  alternative."  Diane  smfled 

"Reggie  is  a  good-natu  -:   boy."   \J,s     A,-. 
p.-iger  pursued,  "but  a  n-.uh,  vacrr-,  .>,.      i,  ^i^ 

ril^r/"^'^'"^""'  "'■'''^"  -''■■-  only Lt 
to  turn  the  faucet.     It's  just  a  ,  s.  ,1,  -(,3,  )„.  ,v   k*. 

cau^wha^verCariiisi^ptoRe.,-::,!!'^^ 

:tV!„Tee\t!!:^ '^'"°"  ^^'-^  ''"-•    '' 
"Oh,  but  I  don't— not  now." 
^;TT«t's  a  pity    If  you  did.  you  could  pump  her." 

thing."  *"  "°'  "'"'^''  8°°''  ^'  'h'*'  ^«"  of 

to'Z*"!!'  J  ""^  r*""  ^  ^'  '  '=^*"«-    I'*"  bound 
killing  a  cat  than  by  giving  it  poison." 

A  few  weeks   later   still   Mrs.  Wappinger  in- 
formed  Djane  that  Dorothea  Pruyn  was'n'otfapp" 
plaiS    I''7"g^g7ds  told  the  Louds,"  she  «- 
plained,      and   the  Louds   told   me.     Her  father 

"^'•ke  a  convict-always  with  an  eye  open  for 

.^T  "'^  T^'X    '^^"  •"»"  -  more'u^do! 
stand,  women  than  he  does  making  pie." 

*55 


THE     INNER     SHRINE 

"  I've  always  noticed  that  the  really  strong  men 
rarely  do.  There's  almost  invariably  something 
petty  about  a  man  to  whom  a  woman  isn't  a  puzzle 
and  a  mystery." 

"  If  it  comes  to  a  puzzle  and  a  mystery,  I  don't 
Icnow  where  you'd  find  a  greater  one  than  Derek 
Pruyn  himself.  After  the  way  he's  acted— and 
treated  people — " 

Diane  flushed,  but  kept  her  emotions  sufficiendy 
under  control  to  be  ablfe  to  follow  her  usual  plan  of 
straightforward  speaking. 

"If  you  mean  me,  Mrs.  Wappinget,  I  ought  to 
say  that  Mr.  Pruyn  has  done  nothing  for  which  I 
can  blame  him.  He  was  placed  in  -i  situation  with 
which  only  a  very  subde  intellige.:ce  could  have 
dealt,  and  I  respect  him  the  more  for  not  having 
had  it.  It's  generally  the  man  who  is  most  com- 
petent in  his  own  domain  who  is  most  likely  to 
blunder  when  he  gets  into  the  woman's;  and  I,  for 
one,  would  rather  have  him  do  it.  I've  had  to 
suffer  because  of  it,  and  so  has  Dorothea;  and  yet 
that  doesn't  make  me  like  it  less." 

"No,  I  dare  say  not,"  Mrs.  Wappinger  responded, 
sympathetically.  "Mr.  Wappinger  himself  was 
just  such  a  man  as  that.  He'd  put  through  a  deal 
that  would  make  Wall  Street  shiver;  but  he  under- 
stood my  woman's  nature  just  about  as  much  as 
old  Tiger  there,  wagging  his  tail  on  the  grass,  fol- 
lows the  styles  in  bonnets.  Only,  I'll  tell  you  what, 
256 


THE      INNER      SHRINB 

Mrs.  Eveleth:  it's  for  men  like  that  that  God 
created  sensible,  capable  wives,  like  you  and  me; 
and  they  ought  to  have  'em." 

1  his  theme  admitting  of  little  discussion,  Diane 
did  not  pursue  it,  but  she  went  away  from  Water- 
wild  with  a  deepened  sense  of  Derek's  need  of  her, 
as  well  as  of  Dorothea's.  She  could  so  easily  have 
helped  them  both  that  the  enforced  impotence  was 
a  new  element  in  her  pain.  To  walk  the  town  in 
search  of  work  to  which  she  was  little  suited,  when 
that  which  no  one  but  herself  could  accomplish 
had  to  remain  undone,  became,  during  the  next  few 
weeks,  the  most  intolerable  part  of  the  irony  of  cir- 
cumstance. The  wifely,  the  maternal  qualities  of 
her  being,  of  which  she  had  never  been  strongly 
conscious  till  of  late,  awoke  in  response  to  the  need 
that  drew  them  forth,  only  to  be  blighted  by  denial. 

The  inactivity  was  the  harder  to  endure  because 
of  the  fact  that,  as  autumn  passed  into  early  wintP"", 
there  came  a  period  when  all  her  litde  world  seemed 
to  have  dropped  her  out  of  sight.  There  were  no 
more  "off-days"  at  Waterwild,  and  Miss  Lucilla's 
occasional  letters  from  Newport  ceased.  Between 
her  mother-in-law  and  herself,  after  a  few  painful 
attempts  at  intercourse,  there  had  fallen  an  equally 
painful  silence.  Even  her  two  or  three  pupils  fell 
away. 

From  the  papers  she  learned  that  one  or  another 
of  those  for  whom  she  cared  was  back  in  town 
257 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

again.  She  walked  in  the  chief  thoroughfares  in 
the  hope  of  meeting  some  of  them,  but  chance  re- 
fused to  favor  her.  In  the  dusk  of  the  early  de- 
scending November  and  December  twilights  she 
passed  their  houses,  watching  the  warm  glow  of 
the  lights  within,  against  which,  now  and  then,  a 
shadow  that  she  could  almost  recognize  would  pass 
by.  She  could  have  entered  at  Miss  Lucilla's  door, 
or  Mrs.  Wappinger's;  but  a  strange  shyness,  the 
shyness  of  the  unfortunate,  had  taken  hold  of  her, 
and  she  held  back.  In  the  mean  time  she  was  free 
to  watch,  with  sad  eyes  and  sadder  spirit,  the  great 
dty,  reversing  the  processes  of  nature,  awaken  from 
the  torpor  of  the  genial  months  into  its  winter  life. 

No  one  knew  better  than  herself  that  thrill  of 
excited  energy  with  which  those  bom  with  the  city 
instinct  return  from  the  acquired  taste  for  moun- 
tain, seaside,  and  farm,  to  enter  once  more  the 
niaze  of  purely  human  relationships.  It  was  a 
moment  with  which  her  own  active  nature  was  in 
sympathy.  She  liked  to  see  the  blinds  being  raised 
in  tl-ie  houses  and  the  barricading  doors  taken 
down.  She  liked  to  see  the  vehicles  begin  to  crowd 
one  another  in  the  streets  and  the  pedestrians  on 
the  pavement  wear  a  brisker  air.  She  liked  to  see 
the  shop-windows  brighten  with  color  and  the  great 
public  gathering-spots  let  in  and  let  out  their 
Arongs.  She  responded  to  the  quickened  anima« 
■on  with  the  spontaneity  of  one  all  ready  to  take 

2j8 


I 


THE      INNER      S  HJJJ^ 

her  part  till  the  thought  came  that  a  part  had  been 
refused  her     It  was  with  a  curious  sensation  of 
being  outs.de  the  range  of  human  activities  that 
dunng  those  days  of  timid,  futile  looking  for  em- 
ployment   she  roamed  the  busy  thoroughfares  of 
New  York.     As  time  passed  she  ceased  to  think 
much  about  her  need  of  sympathetic  fellowship  in 
her  anxiety  to  get  work.     She  wrote  advertisements 
and  answered  them;    she  applied  at  schools,  and 
offices,  and  shops;  she  came  down  to  seeking  any 
humble  drudgeo'  which  would  give  her  the  chance 
to  live. 

It  was  not  till  one  day  in  early  December  that 
the  last  flicker  of  her  hope  went  out.     Chance  had 
made  her  pass  at  midday  along  the  pavement  op- 
posite one  of  the  great  restaurants.     Lifting  her 
eyes  instinctively  toward  the  group  of  well-dressed 
people  on  the  strps,  she  saw  that  Mrs.  Bayford  and 
Marion  Gnmston  were  going  in,  accompanied  by 
Reggie  Bradford  and  the  Marquis  de  Bienville. 
i>he  had  heard  httle  or  nothing  of  them  during  the 
last  four  empty  months;  but  it  was  plain  now  that 
the  lovers  were  agreed  and  her  own  cause  aban- 
doned.    Up  to  this  moment  she  had  not  realized 
how  tenaciously  she  had  clung  to  the  belief  that  the 
proud,  high-souied  girl  would  yet  see  justice  done 
her;  and  now  she  had  deserted  her,  like  the  rest' 

i* or  the  first  time  during  her  years  of  struggle  she 
felt  absolutely  beaten-beaten  so  thoroughly  that 
259 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 


it  would  be  useless  to  renew  the  fight.  She  had 
been  on  her  way  to  see  a  lady  who  had  advertised 
for  a  nursery  governess;  but  she  had  no  strength 
left  with  whicli  to  face  the  interview.  In  the 
winter-garden  of  the  restaurant  Mrs.  Bayford  was 
purring  to  her  guests,  Reggie  Bradford  was  whis- 
pering to  Miss  Grimston,  and  the  Marquis  de 
Bienville  was  ordering  the  wines,  while  Diane  was 
wandering  blindly  back  to  the  poor  little  room  she 
called  her  home,  there  to  lie  down  and  allow  her 
heart  to  break. 

But  hearts  do  not  break  at  the  command  of  those 
who  own  them,  and  when  she  had  moaned  away 
the  worst  of  her  pain,  she  fell  asleep.  When 
she  awoke  it  was  already  growing  dark,  and  the 
knocking  at  her  door,  which  roused  her,  was  like 
a  call  from  the  peace  of  dreams  to  the  desolation 
of  reality.  When  she  had  turned  on  the  light  she 
received  from  the  hands  of  the  waiting  servant  that 
which  had  become  a  most  rare  visitant  in  the  blank- 
ness  of  her  life — a  note. 

The  address  was  in  a  sprawling  hand,  which  she 
recognized.  What  was  written  within  was  more 
sprawling  still: 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  come  to  me  at  once.  The  ex- 
pected has  happened,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
The  motor  will  wait  and  bring  you. 

Clara  Wappinger." 


3nx 

AS  Diane  entered,  Mrs.  Wappinger,  dishevelled 
,.  *  !"''  /"'"raught,  was  standing  in  the  hall,  a 
slip  of  yellow  paper  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  so  glad  you've  cornel     I'm 
just  about  crazy!    Read  this!" 
Diane  took  the  paper  and  read: 


"p.  and  I  atB  to  be  married  to-njght. 
receive  us  to-moirow. 


Be  ready  to 
Caru," 


When  did  this  come.?"  Diane  asked,  quickly 
^  About  half  an  hour  ago.    I  sent  for  you  at  once  " 
I  see  It's  dated  from  Lakefield.     Where's  tiiat  f" 
Mrs.  Wappinger  explained  that  Lakefield  was  a 
small  winter  health  resort  some  two  hours  hy  train 
from  New  York.     She  and  Carli  had  stayed  there 
more  than  once,  at  the  Bay  Tree  Inn.     Ht  w->u1q 
naturally  go  to  the  same  hotel,  only,  when  she  had 
telephoned  to  it,  a  few  minutes  ago,  she  could  find 
no  one  of  the  name  in  residence.     Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, Diane  suggested,  he  would  probably 
not  give  his  name  at  all.     There  followed  a  few 
261 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 


i 


11 


minutes  of  silent  ejection,  during  which  Mrs. 
Wappinger  gazed  at  Diane,  in  the  half-tearful  help- 
lessness of  one  not  used  to  coping  with  unusual 
situations. 

"Won't  you  ^  Tie  in  and  sit  down  ?"  she  asked, 
with  a  sudder.  .  'iization  that  they  were  still  stand- 
ing beneath  ,'  a  light  in  the  hall. 

"No,"  EHaiie  answered,  with  decision;  "it  isn't 
worth  while.  May  I  have  the  motor  for  an  hour 
or  so.'" 

"  Why,  certainly.     But  where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  I'm  going  first  to  Mr.  Pruyn's,  and  afterward 
to  Lakefield." 

"To  Lakefield?  Then  I'll  go  with  you.  We 
could  go  in  the  car." 

Diane  negatived  both  suggestions.  The  motor 
night  break  down,  or  the  chauffeur  might  lose  his 
way;  the  train  would  be  safer.  If  any  one  went 
with  her,  it  would  have  to  be  Mr.  Pruyn. 

"But  don't  go  to  bed,"  she  added,  "or  at  least 
have  some  one  to  answer  tlie  telephone,  for  I'll  ring 
you  up  as  soon  as  I  have  news  for  you." 

"God  bless  you,  dear,"  Mrs.  Wappinger  mur- 
muied.  "I  know  you'll  do  your  best  for  me,  and 
them.  Keep  the  auto  as  long  as  you  like;  and  if 
you  decide  to  go  down  in  it,  just  say  so  to  Laporte." 

But  Diane  seemed  to  hesitate  before  going.     A 
iush  came  into  her  cheek,  and  she  twisted   her 
ingers  in  embarrassment. 
26a 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"I  wonder,"  she  faltered,  "if— if— you  could  let 
me  have  a  litde  money  ?  I  shall  need  some,  and— 
and  I  haven't — any." 

"Oh,  my  dear!  my  poor  dearl" 

Mrs.  Wappinger  bustled  away,  crumpling  the 
notes  she  found  in  her  desk  into  a  little  ball,  which 
she  forced  into  Diane's  hand.  To  forestall  thanks 
she  thrusL  iier  toward  the  door,  accompanying  her 
down  the  steps,  and  kissing  her  as  she  entered  the 
automobile. 

"Why,  bless  my  'eart,  if  it  ain't  the  madaml" 

This  outburst  was  a  professional  solecism  on  the 
part  of  Fulton,  the  English  butler,  at  D°rek  Pruyn's, 
but  it  was  wrung  from  hirn  in  sheer  joy  at  Diane's 
unexpected  appearance. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  ma'am,"  he  continued,  re- 
capturing his  air  of  decorum,  "but  I  fair  couldn't 
help  it.  We'll  be  awful  pleased  to  see  you,  ma'am, 
if  I  may  make  so  bold  as  to  say  it— right  down  to 
the  cat.  It  hasn't  been  the  same  'ouse  since  you 
went  away,  ma'am;  and  me  and  Mr.  Simmons 
has  said  so  time  and  time  again.  You'll  excuse 
me,  ma'am,  but — " 

"Yj>"'r=  very  kind,  Fulton,  and  so  is  Simmons, 
but  I'm  in  a  great  hurry  now.  Is  Mr.  Pruyn  at 
home?" 

"Why,  no,  he  ain't,  ma'am,  and  that's  a  faa 
He's  to  dine  out." 

263 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Where?" 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  that,  ma'am;  but  perhaps 
Mr.  Simmons  would  know.  He  took  Mr.  Pruyn's 
evening  clothes  to  the  bank,  and  he  was  to  change 
there.  If  you'll  wait  a  minute,  ma'am,  I'll  ask 
him." 

But  when  Simmons  came  he  could  only  give  the 
information  that  his  master  was  going  to  a  "sort  o' 
business  banquet"  at  one  of  the  great  restaurants 
or  hotels.  Moreover,,  Miss  Dorothea  had  gone  out, 
saying  that  she  would  not  be  home  to  dinner. 

"Then  I  must  write  a  note,"  Diane  said,  with 
that  air  of  natural  authority  which  had  seemed  al- 
most lost  frtm  her  manner.  "Will  you,  Fulton, 
be  good  enough  to  bring  me  a  glass  of  wine  and  a 
few  biscuits  while  I  write  ?  I  must  ask  you,  Sim- 
mons, for  a  railway  guide." 

In  Derek's  own  room  she  sat  down  at  the  desk 
where,  six  months  ago,  she  had  arranged  his  letters 
on  the  night  when  he  had  returned  from  South 
America.  She  had  no  time  to  indulge  in  memories, 
but  a  tremor  shot  through  her  frame  as  she  took  up 
the  pen  and  wrote  on  a  sheet  of  paper  which  he 
had  already  beaded  with  a  date: 

"I  have  bad  news  for  you,  but  I  hope  I  may  be  in  time 

to  keep  it  from  beiKg  worse.     I  have  reason  to  think  that 

Dorothea  has  gone  to  Lakefield  to  be  married  there  to 

Carii  Wappinger.    Should  there  be  any  mistake  you  will 

264 


THE     I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

forgive  me  for  disturbing  you;  but  I  think  it  well  to  be 
prepared  for  extreme  possibilities.  I  am,  therefore,  going 
to  Lakefield  now— at  once.  A  train  at  seven-fifteen  will 
get  there  a  little  after  nine.  There  are  other  trains  through 
the  evening,  the  latest  being  at  five  minutes  after  ten. 
Should  this  reach  you  in  time  to  enable  you  to  take  one  of 
them,  you  will  be  wise  to  do  so;  but  in  case  it  may  be 
too  late,  you  may  count  on  me  to  do  all  that  can  be  done. 
Let  some  one  be  ready  to  answer  the  telephone  all  night 
I  shall  communicate  with  the  house  from  the  Bay  Tree 
Inn.  I  must  ask  you  again  to  forgive  me  if  I  am  inter- 
fenng  rashly  m  your  affairs,  but  you  can  understand  that 
I  have  no  time  to  take  counsel  or  reflect. 

"Diane  Eveleth." 

Having  made  a  copy  of  this  letter,  she  called 
Simmons  and  Fulton  and  gave  them  their  instruc- 
tions. There  had  been  an  accident,  she  said,  of 
which  she  had  been  able  to  get  only  imperfect  in- 
formation, but  it  seemed  possible  that  Miss  Doro- 
thea  was  involved  in  it.  She  herself  was  huriyino 
to  Lakefield,  and  it  would  be  Simmons'  task  to 
find  Mr.  Pruyn  in  time  for  him  to  catch  the  ten-five 

'n'u  VJ^'T  "^  '^^'^  '°  P^'^'^  "^°  ^^!'^es  with 
all  that  Mr.  Pruyn  could  require  for  a  chan<.e.  H« 
was  to  take  one  of  the  two  letters,  and  one  of  the 
two  valises,  and  go  from  place  to  place,  until  he 
tracked  his  master  down.  Fulton  was  to  say  noth- 
ing to  alarm  the  other  servants,  merely  informing 
Miss  Dorothea's  maid  that  the  young  lady  was 
265 


m 


MKIOCOrT  IISOIUTION   TiST  CHADT 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


IJJS    iU     |t« 


mm  I 


/1PPLIED  IM/IGE     Inc 

teS3  East  Main   Streit 

Rochesler,   New  York         14609       US* 

(7)6)   *B2  -0300-  Phone 

(716)   288-  5989  -  Fo« 


1 1' 


;£f|!  ] 


THE      INNER 


SHRINE 


absent  for  the  night  and  that  Mrs.  Eveleth  waa 
with  her.  He  would  talce  charge  of  the  second 
letter  and  the  second  valise,  in  case  Mr.  Pruyn 
should  return  to  the  house  before  Simmons  could 
find  him.  The  imponant  charge  of  the  telephone 
was  also  to  be  in  P'ulton's  trust,  and  he  was  to  an- 
swer all  calls  through  the  night.  In  concluding  her 
directions  Diane  acknowledged  her  relief  in  having 
two  lieutenants  on  whose  silence,  energy,  and  tact 
she  could  so  thoroughly  depend.  She  committed 
the  matter  to  their  hands  not  merely  as  to  Mr. 
Pruyn's  butler  and  valet,  but  as  to  his  trusted  friends, 
and  in  that  capacity  she  was  sure  they  would  do 
their  duty  and  hold  their  tongues. 

In  a  similar  spirit,  when  she  arrived,  about  half- 
past  nine,  at  the  Bay  Tree  Inn,  she  asked  for  the 
manager,  and  took  him  into  her  confidence.  A 
runaway  marriage,  she  informed  hin.,  had  been 
planned  to  take  place  that  very  night  at  Lakefield, 
and  she  had  come  there  as  the  companion  and 
friend  of  a  motherless  girl,  her  object  being  to  post- 
pone the  ceremony. 

The  manager  listened  with  sympathy,  and  prom- 
ised his  help.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  gentleman  had 
arrived,  driving  his  own  motor,  that  very  afternoon. 
He  had  put  the  machine  in  the  garage,  and  taken 
a  room,  but  had  not  registered.  Their  season  hay- 
ing scarcely  begun,  and  the  bote!  being  emp^, 
they  were  somewhat  careless  about  such  formalities, 
266 


THE      I  N  N  E 


R_    SHRINE 


He  could  only  say  that  the  young  man  was  tall 
fair,  and  slender,  and  seemed  to  be  a  ZT  ^ 
means.  He  believed,  too,  that  aV  rh  ^  ^  '^ 
he  was  smoking  on  thTterrace  K^'  '"T  '"'""'" 
If  Diane  had  not  come  un  h  T  ''"'  '^'^'• 

must  have  met  him    71  r^  u^  ^"°'^''  ""^y  '^ 

-  and  see  roiTeVsef  Je/ras  thVX 
she  was  looking  for  or  not.  ^ 

Being  tolerably  sure  of  that  already.  Diane  ore- 

wodd  aTkr'''"^   '"  arrangement  ,r7  Z 
would  ask  for  a  room  as  near  as  possible  to  the 
mam  door  of  the  hotel,  so  that  when  ^heyimrial 
arnved  she  could  be  ushered  directly  into  i  .^S 
tuna^ely  the  establishment  was  able  to  offer  her 
exacdy  what  she  required,  one  of  the  invalids'  suit« 
which  were  a  special  feature  of  the  house-a  litde 
sittmg-room  and  bedroom  for  the  use  of  person, 
whose  mfirmmes  made  a  long  walk  between  their 
own_  apanments  and  the  sun-parlor  inadvisable 
Having  inspected  and  accepted  it.  Diane  bathed  her 
face  and  smoothed  her  hair,  after  which  she  stepped 
out  to  confront  Mr.  Wappinger  "^ 


XX 


SHE  saw  him  at  the  end  of  the  terrace,  peering 
through  the  moonlight^  down  tlie  driveway. 
She  did  not  go  forward  to  meet  him,  but  waited  un- 
til he  turned  in  her  direction.  She  knew  that  at  a 
distance,  and  especially  at  night,  her  own  figure 
might  seem  not  unlike  Dorothea's,  and  calculated  on 
that  effect  She  divined  his  start  of  astonishment 
on  catching  sight  of  her  by  the  abrupt  jerk  of  his 
head  and  the  way  in  which  he  half  threw  up  his 
hands.  When  he  began  coming  forward,  it  was 
with  a  slow,  interrogative  movement,  as  though  he 
were  asking  how  she  had  come  there,  in  disregard 
of  their  preconcerted  signals.  Some  exclamation 
was  already  on  his  lips,  when,  by  the  light  stream- 
ing from  the  windows  of  the  hotel,  he  saw  his  mis- 
take, and  paused. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Wappinger.    What  »n  ex 
traordinary  meeting!" 

Priding  himself  on  his  worldly  wisdom,  Carli 
Wappinger  never  allowed  himself  to  be  caught  by 
•iny  trick  of  feminine  finesse.    On  the  present  occa- 
sion he  stood  stock-still  and  silent,  eying  Diane  as 
268 


TJl  E      INNER      S  fT  TijjjjT^ 

a  bird  eyes  a  trap  before  hopping  into  it.     Though 
he  knew  her  as  a  friend  to  Dorothea  and  himself. 
he  knew  her  as  a  subtle  friend,  hiding  under  her 
sympathy  many  of  those  kindly  devices  which  ex- 
perience keeps  to  foil  the  young.     He  did  not  com- 
plam  of  her  for  that,  finding  it  legitimate  that  she 
should  avad  herself  of  what  he  called  "the  stock 
m  trade  of  a  chaperon";  while  it  had  often  amused 
hjm  to  out^yit  her.     But  now  it  was  a  matter  of 
Greek  meeting  Greek,  and  she   must  be  given  to 
understand  that  he  was  the  stronger.     How  she  had 
discovered  their  plans  he  did  not  stop  to  diink;  but  he 
must  make  it  plain  to  her  that  he  was  not  duped  into 
ascribing  her  presence  at  Lakefield  to  an  -cident 
Is  It  an  extraordinary  meeting,  Mrs.     veieth— 
tor  you  r 

"No.  not  for  me."  Diane  replied,  readily.  "I 
only  thought  it  might  be— for  you." 

"Then  I'll  admit  that  it  is." 

"But  I  hoped,  too."  she  continued,  moving  a  lit- 
tie  nearer  to  him.  "  my  coming  might  be  in  the 
way  of  a— pleasant     uprise." 

'Oh  yes;  certainly;  very  pleasant-very  pleas- 
ant indeed."  '  '^ 

"I'm  a  good  deal  relieved  to  hear  you  say  that, 
Mr.  Wappinger."  she  said,  "because  there  was  a 
possibility  that  you  mightn't  like  it  " 

"Whether  I  like  it  or  not."  he  said,  warily,  "will 
depend  upon  your  motive." 

•*  269 


THE      INNER SHRINE 

"  I  don't  tliink  you'll  find  any  fault  with  that.  I 
came  because  I  thought  I  could  help  Dorothea. 
I  hoped  I  might  be  able  indirectly  to  help  you, 
too." 

"What  makes  you  think  we're  in  need  of  help  V 

She  came  near  enough  for  him  to  see  her  smile. 

"Because,  until  after  you're  married,  you'll  both 
be  in  an  embarrassing  position." 

"There  are  worse  things  in  the  world  than 
that." 

"Not  many.  I  can  hardly  imagine  two  people 
like  Dorothea  and  yourself  more  awkwardly  placed 
than  you'll  be  from  the  minute  she  arrives.  Re- 
member, you're  not  Strephon  and  Qiioe  in  a  pasto- 
ral; you're  two  most  sophisticated  members  of  a  most 
sophisticated  set,  who  scarcely  know  how  to  walk 
about  excepting  according  to  the  rules  of  a  code  of 
etiquette.  Neither  of  you  was  made  for  escapade, 
and  I'm  sure  you  don't  like  it  any  more  than  she 
will." 

"And  so  you've  come  to  relieve  the  situation  ?" 

"Exactly." 

"And  for  anything  elsef" 

"What  else  should  I  come  for?" 

"You  might  have  come  for — two  or  three 
things." 

"One  of  which  would  be  to  interfere  with  your 
plans.  Well,  I  haven't.  If  I  had  wanted  to  do 
that;  I  could  have  done  it  long  ago.  I'll  tell  you 
zjo 


r^-4 


^LP.^      ^  f   r^  M  R      SHRINE 

outright  that  Mr.  Pruyn  requested  me  more  than 
once  to  put  a  stop  to  your  acquaintance  with  Doro- 
thea, and  I  refused.  I  refused  at  first  because  I 
didn't  think  it  wise,  and  afterward  because  I  hked 
you.  I  kept  on  refusing  because  I  cam-  to  see  in 
the  end  that  you  were  bom  to  marry  Dorothea,  and 
that  no  one  else  would  ever  suit  her  I'm  here  this 
evening  because  I  believe  that  still,  and  I  want  vou 
to  be  happy."  ' 

"Did  you  think  your  coming  would  make  ui 
happier  f" 

"In  the  long  run-yes.  You  may  not  see  it  to- 
night, but  you  will  to-morrow.  You  can't  imagine 
that  I  would  run  the  risk  of  forcing  myself  upon 
you  unless  I  was  sure  there  was  something  I  could 
do.  •^ 

"Well,  what  is  it.?" 

"It  isn't  much,  and  yet  it's  a  great  deal.    When 
you  and  Dorothea  are  married  I  want  to  go  with 
you.     I  want  to  be  there.     I  don't  want  her  to  go 
friendless,    men  she  goes  back  to  town  tcvmorrow, 
and  everything  has  to  be  explained,  I  want  her  to 
be  able  to  say  that  I  was  beside  her.     I  know  that 
mine  is  not  a  name  to  carry  much  authority,  but 
I  m  a  woman— a  woman  who  has  held  a  position  of 
responsibility,  almost  a  mother's  place,  toward  Do- 
rothea herself— and  there  are  moments  in  life  when 
any  kind  of  woman  is  better  than  none  at  all.    You 
may  not  see  it  just  now,  but—" 
271 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Oh  yes,  I  do,"  he  said,  slowly;  "only  when 
you've  gone  in  for  an  unconventional  thing  you 
might  as  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  Nothing  more  than 
the  unconventional  requires  a  nicely  discriminating 
taste;  and  it's  no  use  being  more  violent  than  you 
can  help.  You  and  Dorothea  are  making  a  match 
that  sets  the  rules  of  your  world  at  defiance,  but 
you  may  as  well  avail  yourselves  of  any  little  miti- 
gation that  comes  to  hand.  Life  is  going  to  be 
hard  enough  for  you  as  it  is — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that.  They  can't  do 
anything  to  us — " 

"Not  to  you,  perhaps,  because  you're  a  man. 
But  they  can  to  Dorothea,  and  they  will.  This  is 
just  one  of  those  queer  situations  in  which  you'll 
get  the  credit  and  she'll  get  the  blame.  You  can 
always  make  a  poem  on  Young  Lochinvar,  when 
it's  less  easy  to  approve  of  the  damsel  who  springr 
to  the  pillion  behind  him.  I  c'  )n't  pretend  to  ac- 
count for  this  idiosyncrasy  of  human  nature;  I 
merely  state  it  as  a  fact.  Society  will  forget  that 
you  ran  away  with  Dorothea,  but  it  will  never  for- 
get that  she  ran  away  with  you." 

"H'm!" 

"But  I  don't  see  that  that  need  distress  you. 

You  wouldn't  care;   and  as  for  Dorothea,  she  s  got 

the  pluck  of  a  soldier.     Depend  upon  it,  she  sees 

the  whole  situation  already,  and  is  prepared  to  face 

272 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

it  That's  part  of  the  difference  between  a  woman 
and  a  man.  Tou  can  go  into  a  thing  liice  this  with- 
out looking  ahead,  because  you  know  that,  what- 
ever the  opposition,  you  can  keep  it  down.  A 
woman  is  too  weak  for  that.  She  must  count  every 
danger  beforehand.  Dorothea  has  done  that.  This 
isn't  going  to  be  a  leap  in  the  dark  for  her;  it 
wouldn't  be  for  any  girl  of  her  intelligence  and 
social  instincts.  She  knows  what  she's  doing,  and 
she's  doing  it  for  you.  She  has  made  her  sacrifice, 
and  made  it  willingly,  before  she  consented  to  take 
this  step  at  all.  She  crossed  her  Rubicon  without 
saying  anything  to  you  about  it,  and  you  needn't 
consider  her  any  more." 

"Well,  I  like  that!"  he  said,  in  an  injured  tone, 
thrusting  his  hands  into  his  overcoat  pockets  and 
beginning  to  move  along  the  terrace. 

"Yes;  I  thought  you  would,"  she  agreed,  walk- 
ing by  his  side.  "It  shows  what  she's  willing  to 
give  up  for  you.  It  shows  even  more  than  that. 
It  shows  how  she  loves  you.  Dorothea  is  not  a 
girl  who  holds  society  lightly,  and  if  she  renounces 
it — " 

"Oh,  but,  come  now,  Mrs.  Eveleth!  It  isn't 
going  to  be  as  bad  as  that." 

"It  isn't  going  to  be  as  bad  as  anything.     Bad 

is  not  the  word.     When  I  speak  of  renouncing 

society,  of  course   I  only  mean  renouncing — the 

ben.    There   will   always   be   some   people 

273 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

Well,  you  remember  Dumas'  comparison  of  the 
sixpenny  and  the  six-shiiling  peaciies.  If  you  can'« 
have  the  latter,  you  will  be  able  to  afford  the 
former." 

They  walked  on  in  rilence  to  the  end  of  the  ter- 
race,  and  it  was  not  till  after  they  had  turned  that 
the  young  man  spoke  again. 

"1  believe  you're  overdrawing  it,"  he  said,  with 
some  decision. 

^  "Isn't  it  you  who  are  overdrawing  what  I  mean  ? 
I'm  simply  trying  to  say  that  while  things  won't  be 
very  pleasant  for  you,  they  won't  be  worse  than 
you  can  easily  bear— especially  when  Dorothea  has 
steeled  herself  to  them  in  advance.  I  repeat,  too, 
that,  poor  as  I  am,  my  presence  will  be  taken  as' 
safeguarding  some  of  the  proprieties  people  expect 
one  to  obser»'e.  I  speak  of  my  presence,  but,  after 
all,  you  may  have  provided  yourself  with  some  one 
better.     I  didn't  think  of  that." 

"No;   there's  no  one." 

"Then  Dorothea  is  coming  all  alone?" 

"Reggie  Bradford  is  bringing  her— if  you  warn 
to  know." 

"By  the  ten- five  train?" 

"No;   in  his  motor." 

"How  very  convenient  these  motors  arel  And 
has  she  no  companion  but  Mr.  Bradford  ?" 

"She  hasn't  any  companion  at  all.     She  doesn't 
even  know  that  the  man  driving  the  machine  u 
274 


THE     I  N  N  E 


SHRINE 


Reggie.  He  thought  that,  ^jing  veiy  slowly,  as  he 
promised  to  do,  to  avoid  all  chances  of  accident, 
they  might  arrive  by  eleven." 

"And  Dorothea  was  to  be  alone  here  with  you 
two  men  ?  ^ 

"Well,  you  see,  we  are  to  be  married  as  soon  as 
she  arrives.     We  go   straight  from   here   to   the 
clergyman  s  house;    he',  waiting  for  us;    in  ten 
minutes    time  I  shall  be  her  husband;    and  then 
everything  will  be  all  right." 
"How  cleverly  you've  arranged  it!" 
"I  had  to  mike  my  arrangements  pretty  close," 
l-arli  explained,  in  a  tone  of  pride.     "There  were 
a  good  many  difficulties  to  overcome,  but  I  did  it 
Dorothea  has  had  no  trouble  at  all,  and  will  have 
none;  that  is,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh,  at  the  recol- 
lection of  what  Diane  had  just  said,  "as  far  as 
getting  down  here  is  concerned.     She  went  to  tea 
at  the  Belfords',  and  on  coming  out   she  found 
a  motor  waiting  for  her  at  the  door.     She  walked 
into  It  without  asking  question?  and  sat  down;  and 
that  s  all.     She  doesn't  know  whose  motor  it  is,  or 
where  she's  going,  exc  «  that  she  is  being  taken 
toward  me.    I  provided  her  with  everything.    S' e's 
got  nothing  to  do  but  sit  still  till  she  gets  here,  when 
she  will  be  married  almost  before  she  knows  she 
has  arrived." 

"It's  certainly  most  romantic;  and  if  one  has  ts 
•Jo  fuch  things,  they  couldn't  be  done  better." 
»75 


11 


: 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Well,  one  has  to — sometimes." 

"Yes;   so  I  see." 

"What  do  you  suppose  Derek  Pruyn  will  say?" 
he  asked,  after  a  brief  pause. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  he'll  say— in  these 
circumstances.  Of  course,  I  always  knew —  But 
there's  no  use  speaking  about  that  now." 

"Speaking  about  what  now?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"Oh,  nothing!  One  must  be  with  Mr.  Pruyn 
constantly  —  live  in  his  house  — to  understand 
him.  You  can  always  count  on  his  being  kinder 
than  lie  seems  at  first,  or  on  the  surface.  During 
the  last  months  I  was  with  Dorothea  I  could  see 
plainly  enough  that  in  the  end  she  would  get  her 
way." 

He  paused  abruptly  in  his  walk  and  confronted 
her. 

"Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  he  demanded,  "why 
didn't  you  tell  me  that  before  ?" 

"You  never  asked  me.  I  couldn't  go  around 
shouting  it  out  for  nothing.  Besides,  it  was  only 
my  opinion,  in  which,  after  all,  I  am  quite  likely  to 
be  wrong." 

"  But  quite  likely  to  be  right." 

"I  suppose  so.  Naturally,  I  should  have  told 
you,"  she  went  on,  humbly,  "if  I  had  thought  that 
you  wanted  to  hear;  but  how  was  I  to  know  that  ? 
One  doesn't  talk  about  other  people's  private 
affairs  unless  one  is  invited.  In  any  case,  it  doesn't 
276 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

matter  now.  A  man  who  can  cut  the  Gordian 
knot  as  you  can  doesn't  care  to  hear  that  tliere's  a 
way  by  which  it  might  have  been  unravelled." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  ITiere  are  cases 
in  which  the  longest  way  round  is  the  shortest  way 
home,  and  if—"  ' 

"But  I  didn't  suppose  you  would  consider  so 
cauuous  a  route  as  that." 

"I  shouldn't  for  myself;  but.  you  see.  I  have  co 
thmk  of  Dorothea." 

"But  I've  already  told  you  that  t'  re's  no  occa- 
sion for  that.  If  Dorothea  has  n  ..e  her  choice 
with  her  eyes  open — " 

"Good  Lord  I"  he  cried,  impatiently,  "you  ta'k 
as  |f  all  I  wanted  was  to  get  her  into  a  noose." 

Well,  isn't  it?  Perhaps  I'm  stupid,  but  . 
thought  the  whole  reason  for  bringing  her  down 
here  was  because — " 

"Because  we  thought  there  was  no  other  way," 
he  finished,  in  a  tone  of  exasperation.  "But  if 
there  is  another  way — " 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  there  is,"  she  retorted, 
with  a  touch  of  asperity,  to  keep  pace  with  his 
nsing  emotion.  "Don't  begin  to  think  that  be- 
cause  I  said  Mr.  Pruyn  was  coming  round  to  it  he's 
obliged  to  do  it." 

I' No;    but  if  there  was  a  chance — " 

"Of  course  there's  always  that.  But  what 
tnen  r 

277 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I 


N  E 


Well,  then— there'd  be  no  particular  reason  for 
m*h.ng  the  thing  to-night.  But  I  don't  know, 
though,  he  continued,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
tone;  "we're  here,  and  perhaps  we  might  as  well 
go  through  with  it.  All  I  want  is  her  happiness; 
and  since  she  can't  be  happy  in  her  own  home—" 
Diane  laughed  softly,  and  he  stopped  once  more 
m  his  walk  to  look  down  at  her. 

"There's  one  thing  you  ought  to  understand 
about  Dorothea,"  she  said,  with  a  little  air  of  amuse- 
ment    "  You  know  how  fond  I  am  of  her,  and  that 
I  wouldn't  criticise  her  for  the  world.     Now,  don't 
be  offended,  and  don't  glower  at  me  like  that,  for 
I  must  say  it.     Dorothea  isn't  unhappy  because  she 
hasn't  a  good  home,  or  because  she  has  a  stem 
father,  or  because  she  can't  marty  you.     She's  un- 
happy because  she  isn't  getting  her  own  way,  and 
for  no  other  reason  whatever.     She's  the  dearest, 
sweetest,  most  loving  little  girl  on  earth,  but  she 
has  a  will  like  steel.     Whatever  she  sets  her  mind 
on,  great  or  small,  that  she  is  determined  to  do, 
and  when  it's  done  she  doesn't  care  any  more  about 
It.     When  I  was  with  her,  I  never  crossed  her  in 
anything.     I  let  her  do  what  she  was  bent  on  doing, 
nght  up  to  the  point  where  she  saw,  herself,  that 
she  didn't  want  to.     If  her  father  would  only  treat 
her  like  that,  she — " 

"She  wouldn't  be  coming  down  here  to-night. 
That's  what  you  mean,  isn't  it  i" 
278 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Oh  no  I    How  can  you  say  so?" 

"I  can  say  so,  because  I  think  there's  a  good  deal 
of  truth  in  it.  I'm  not  without  some  glimmering  of 
msight  mto  her  character  myself;  and  to  be  quite 
frank,  it  was  seeing  her  set  her  pretty  white  teeth 
and  cimch  her  fist  and  stamp  her  foot,  to  get  her 
way  over  nothing  at  all,  that  first  made  me  fall  in 
love  with  her." 

"Then  I  will  say  no  more.  I  see  you  know  her 
as  well  as  I  do." 

"Yes,  I  know  her,"  he  said,  confidently,  march- 
ing on  again.  "I  don't  think  there  are  many  cor- 
ners of  her  character  into  which  I  haven't  seen." 

Several  remarks  arose  to  Diane's  lips,  but  she 
repressed  them,  and  they  continued  their  walk  in 
silence.  During  the  three  or  four  turns  they  took, 
side  by  side,  up  and  down  the  terrace,  she  divined 
the  course  his  thought  was  taking,  and  her  speech 
was  witli  his  inner  rather  than  his  outer  man. 
i>uddenly  he  stopped,  with  one  of  his  jerky  pauses, 
and  when  he  spoke  his  voice  took  on  a  boyish 
quality  that  made  it  appealing. 

"Mrs  Eveleth,  do  you  know  what  I  think?  I 
think  that  you  and  I  have  come  down  here  on 
what  looks  like  a  fool's  business.  If  it  wasn't  for 
leaving  Dorothea  here  with  Reggie  Bradford,  I'd 
put  you  in  the  motor  and  we'd  travel  back  to  New 
York  as  fast  as  tires  could  take  us." 
"Upon  my  word,"  she  confessed,  "you  make  me 
279 


rMnhiTrrfflrm 


J' 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

almost  wish  we  could  do  it.  But,  of  course,  it  isn't 
possible.  There  must  be  some  one  here  to  meet 
Dorothea — and  explain.  I  could  do  that  if  you 
liked." 

"Oh  no!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  new  change  of 
mind;  "  I  should  look  as  if  I  were  showing  the  white 
feather." 

"On  the  contrary,  you'd  look  as  if  you  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  a  man." 

"And  Derek  Pruyn  might  hold  out  against  me 
in  the  end." 

"It  would  be  time  enough,  even  then,  to  do — 
what  you  meant  to  do  to-night;  and  I'd  help 
you." 

He  hesitated  still,  till  another  thought  occurred 
to  him. 

"Oh,  what's  the  good?  It's  too  late  to  rectify 
anything  now.  They  must  know  at  her  house  by 
this  time  that  "she  has  gone  to  meet  me." 

"No;  I've  anticipated  that.  They  understand 
that  she's  here,  at  the  Bay  Tree  Inn — ^with  me." 

Ha  moved  away  from  her  with  a  quick  backward 
leap. 

"With  you?  You've  done  that?  You've  seen 
them?  You've  told  them?  You're  a  wonderful 
woman,  Mrs.  Eveleth.  I  see  now  what  you've 
been  up  to,"  he  added,  with  a  shrill,  nervous  laugh. 
"You've  been  turning  me  round  your  little  finger, 
and  I'm  hanged  if  you  haven't  done  it  very  cleverly, 
280 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

You've  failed  in  this  one  point,  however,  that  you 
haven't  done  it  quite  cleverly  enough.     I  stay." 

"Very  well;  but  you  won't  refuse  to  let  me  stay 
too — for  the  reasons  that  I  gave  you  at  first." 

"You're  wily,  I  must  say!  If  you  can't  get  best, 
you're  willing  to  take  second  best.     Isn't  that  it  ?" 

"That's  it  exactly.  I  did  hope  that  no  mar- 
riage would  take  place  between  Dorothea  and  you 
to-night.  I  hoped  that,  before  you  came  to  that, 
you'd  realize  to  what  a  degree  you're  taking  ad- 
vantage of  her  wilfulness  and  her  love  for  you — 
for  it's  a  mixture  of  both — to  put  her  in  a  false 
position,  from  which  she'll  never  wholly  free  her- 
self as  long  as  she  lives.  I  hoped  you'd  be  man 
enough  to  go  back  and  win  her  from  her  father  by 
open  means.  Failing  all  that,  I  hoped  you'd  let 
me  blunt  the  keenest  edge  of  your  folly  by  giving 
to  your  marriage  .the  countenance  which  my  pres- 
ence at  it  could  bestow.  Was  there  any  harm  in 
that  ?  Was  there  anything  for  you  to  resent,  or 
for  me  to  be  ashamed  of?  Is  a  good  thing  less 
good  because  I  wish  it,  or  a  wise  thought  less  wise 
because  I  think  it  ?  You  talk  of  turning  you  round 
my  little  finger,  as  though  it  was  something  at  which 
you  had  to  take  offence.  My  dear  boy,  that  only 
shows  how  young  you  are.  Every  good  woman,  if 
I  may  call  myself  one,  turns  the  men  she  cares  for 
round  her  little  finger,  and  it's  the  men  who  are 
worth  most  in  life  who  submit  most  readily  to  the 
281 


i! 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

process.  When  you're  a  little  older,  when,  per- 
haps,  you  have  children  of  your  own,  you'll  under- 
stand better  what  I've  done  for  you  to-night;  and 
you  won't  use  toward  my  memory  the  tone  of 
semi-jocular  disdain  that  has  entered  into  nearly 
every  word  you've  addressed  to  me  this  evening. 
Now,  if  you  :i  excuse  me,"  she  added,  wearily,  "I 
think  I'll  go  in.  I'm  vety  tired,  and  I'll  rest  till 
Dorothea  comes.  When  she  arrives  you  must 
bring  her  to  me  directly;  anrl  she  must  stay  with 
me  till  I  take  her  to— the  wedding.  My  room  is 
the  first  door  on  the  left  of  the  main  entrance." 

She  was  half-way  across  the  terrace  when  he 
called  out  to  her,  the  boyish  tremor  in  his  voice 
more  accentuated  than  before. 

"Wait  a  minute.  There's  lots  of  time."  She 
came  back  a  few  paces  toward  him.  "Shouldn't 
I  look  very  grotesque  if  I  hooked  it  ?" 

"Not  half  so  grotesque  as  you'll  look  to-morrow 
morning  when  you  have  to  go  back  to  town  and  tell 
eveiy  one  you  meet  that  you  and  Dorothea  Pruyn 
have  run  away  and  got  married.  That's  when  you'll 
look  foolish  and  cut  a  pathetic  figure.  As  things 
are  it  could  be  kept  between  two  or  three  of  us; 
but  if  you  go  on,  you'll  be  in  all  the  papers  by 
to-morrow  afternoon.  Of  course  your  mother 
tnows  ?" 

"I  suppose  so;  I  wired  when  I  thought  it  was 
mo  late  for  her  to  spread  the  alarm.    But  I  don't 
282 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

mind  about  her.    She'll  be  only  too  glad  to  have 
me  back  at  any  price." 
"Then— I'd  go." 

The  light  from  the  hotel  was  full  on  his  face, 
ana  she  could  almost  have  kissed  him  for  his  dole- 
ful, crestfallen  expression. 
"Well— I  will." 

There  was  no  heroism  in  the  way  n  which  he 
said  the  words,  and  die  spring  disappeared  from 
his  walk  as  he  went  back  to  the  hotel  to  pay  his 
bill  and  order  out  his  "machine."  Diane  smiled 
to  herself  to  see  ho,,  his  head  drooped  and  his 
shoulders  sagged,  but  her  eyes  blinked  at  the  mist 
that  rose  before  them.  After  all,  he  was  little  more 
than  a  schoolboy,  and  he  and  Dorothea  were  but 
two  children  at  play. 

She  did  not  continue  her  own  way  into  the  hotel. 
Now  that  the  first  part  of  her  purpose  in  coming 
had  been  accomplished,  she  was  free  to  remember 
what  the  comedy  with  Carli  had  almost  excluded 
from  her  mind— that  within  an  hour  or  two  Derek 
Pruyn  and  she  might  be  face  to  face  again.  The 
thought  made  her  heart  leap  as  with  sudden  fright. 
Fortunately,  Dorothea  would  have  arrived  by  that 
time,  and  would  stand  between  them,  otherwise  the 
mere  possibility  would  have  been  overwhelming. 

Yes;    Dorothea  ought  to  be  coming  soon.     She 
looked  at  her  watch,  and  found  it  was  nearly  eleven. 
On  the  stillness  of  the  night  there  came  a  sound,  a 
?,8^ 


-Oi^ 


iSSi 


THE     INNER      SHRINB 

clatter,  a  whiz,  a  throb — the  unmistakable  roise  of 
an  automobile.  She  hurried  to  the  end  of  the  ter- 
race; but  it  was  not  Dorothea  coming;  it  was  Carli 
going  away.  She  breathed  more  freely,  standing  to 
see  him  pass,  and  knowing  that  he  was  really  gone. 
A  minute  later  he  went  by  in  the  moonlight, 
waving  his  hand  to  her  as  she  stood  silhouetted  on 
the  terrace  above  him.  Then,  to  her  annoyance, 
the  motor  stopped  and  he  leaped  out.  For  a  mo- 
ment her  hean  stood  still  in  alarm,  for  if  he  was 
coming  back  the  work  might  be  to  do  all  over 
again.  He  did  come  back,  scrambling  up  the  steps 
till  he  was  at  her  feet.  But  it  was  only  to  seize  her 
hand  and  kiss  it  hastily,  after  which,  without  a 
word,  he  was  off  again.  Then  once  more  the  huge 
machine  clattered  and  whizzed  and  throbbed,  rat- 
tling its  way  down  the  drive  and  on  into  the 
dark,  till  all  sound  died  away  in  the  solemn  winter 
silence. 


3na 


DURING  the  next  half- hour  small  pracdcal 
tasks  occupied  Diane's  mind  and  kept  the 
thought  of  Derek  Pruyn's  arrival  from  becoming 
more  than  a  subconscious  dread.  She  informed 
the  manager  of  her  success  with  his  mysterious 
young  guest,  and  arranged  that  Dorothea,  when  she 
came,  should  spend  the  night  with  her.  Then  she 
put  herself  in  telephonic  communication,  first  with 
Mrs.  Wappinger,  and  then  with  Fulton.  She  gave  the 
former  the  intelligence  that  Carli  had  departed,  and 
received  from  the  latter  the  information  that  Sim- 
mons had  found  his  m.aster,  who  had  been  able  to 
leave  for  Lakefield  by  the  ten-five  train.  These 
steps  being  taken,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
sit  down  and  wait  for  Dorothea.  Allowing  thirty 
or  forty  minutes  for  possible  delays,  she  calculated 
that  the  girl  ought  to  arrive  a  good  half-hour  be- 
fore her  father.  This  would  give  her  time  to  deal 
with  each  separately,  clearing  up  misunderstand- 
ings on  both  sides,  and  preparing  the  way  for  such 
a  meeting  as  would  lead  to  mutual  concessio-s  and 
future  peace. 

"  28c 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

Physically  dred,  she  took  ofF  her  hat  and  threw 
herself  on  the  couch  in  her  little  sitting-room.  By 
sheer  force  of  will  she  continued  to  shut  out  Derek 
fiom  her  though^  concentrating  all  her  mental 
faculties  on  the  arguments  and  persuasions  she 
should  bring  to  bear  on  Dorothea.  She  had  no 
nervousness  on  this  account  The  naughty,  head- 
strong child  that  runs  away  from  home  does  not 
get  far  without  a  realizing  sense  of  its  happy  shelter. 
She  divined  that  the  long  ride  through  the  dark, 
with  an  unknown  man,  toward  an  unknown  goal, 
would  have  already  subdued  Dorothea's  spirits  to 
the  point  where  she  would  be  only  too  glad  to  find 
herself  dropping  into  familiar,  feminine  arms. 

At  eleven  o'clock  she  got  up  from  her  couch  with 
a  vague  impulse  to  be  in  a  more  direct  attitude  of 
welcome.  At  half- past  eleven  she  went  to  the 
office  to  inquire  of  the  manager  how  long  a  motor 
going  slowly  should  take  to  reach  Lakefield  from 
New  York,  assuming  that  it  had  got  away  from  the 
city  about  six  o'clock.  Alarmed  by  his  reply,  she 
begged  him  to  keep  a  certain  number  of  the  ser- 
vants  up,  and  the  hotel  in  readiness  to  cope  with 
any  emergency  or  accident,  promising  liberal  re- 
muneration  for  all  unusual  work.  After  that  came 
another  long  hour  of  waiting. 

It  was  about  half -oast  twelve  when  there  waa  a 
sound  of  a  carriage  coming  up  the  driveway.     It 
was  probably  Derek;    and  yet  there  was  a  pot- 
286 


THE     INNER      SHRINK 

ftibility  tliat,  the  automobile  having  broken  do»w>, 
Reggie  and  Dorothea  had  been  obl.-ged  to  finish 
their  journey  in  a  humbler  way  than  that  in  which 
they  had  started.    Diane  hurried  to  the  terrace.    The 
moon  had  disappeared,  but  the  stars  were  out,  and 
ihe  night  had  grown  colder.    The  pines  surroundin|t 
the  hotel  shot  up  weirdly  against  the  midnight  sky, 
soughing  with  a  low  iiurmur,  hke  the  moan  o) 
primeval  nature.    Up  the  ascent  from  the  main 
road  the  carriage  crept  wearily,  while  Diane's  heart 
poured  itself  out  in  a  sort  of  incoherent  prayer  that 
Dorotliea  might  have   arrived   before  her  father. 
The  horses  dragged  themselves  to  the  steps,  and 
Derek  Pruyn  sprang  out. 

Instinctively  Diane  fell  back. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  she  gasped,  unable  for  the  in- 
stant to  say  more. 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  quickly,  peering  down  into 
her  face.    "What  news?" 

"Dorothea  hasn't  come.    The — the  other  per- 
son has  gone." 

"  Gone  ?     How — gone  ?" 

"  He  went  away  of  his  own  accord." 

"That  is,  you  sent  him." 

■  Not  exactly;    he  was  wiUing  to  go.     He  sun 
he'd  been  doing  wrong." 

A  porter  having  come  from  the  hotel  and  seized 
Derek's  valise,  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  go  in 
and  attend  to  the  small  preliminaries  of  arrivaL 
287 


THE     INNER      SHRINK 

When  they  were  finished  Derek  returned  to  Diane, 
who  had  seated  herself  in  a  wicker  chair  beside  one 
of  the  numerous  tea-tables  to  which  a  laige  part  of 
the  hall  was  given  up.  Under  the  eye  of  the  d  rowsy 
clerk,  who  still  kept  his  place  at  the  office  desk,  she 
felt  a  certain  sense  of  protection,  even  though  the 
width  of  the  hotel  lay  between  them. 

"Now,  tell  me,"  Derek  said,  in  his  quick,  com- 
manding  tones;   "tell  me  everything." 

The  repressed  intensity  of  his  bearing  had  on 
Diane  the  effect  of  making  her  more  calmly  mistress 
of  herself.    Quietly,  and  in  a  manner  as  matter-of- 
fact  as  she  could  make  it,  she  told  her  tale  from 
die  beginning.    She  narrated  her  summons  from 
Mrs.  Wappinger,  her  visit  to  his  own  house,  her 
arrangements  there,  her  journey  to  Lakefield,  and 
her    interview    with    Carli    Wappinger.     Without 
making  light  of  what  he  and  Dorothea  had  under- 
taken  to  do,  she  reduced  their  fault  to  a  minimum, 
turning  it  into  indiscretion  rather  than  anything 
more  grave.    She  laid  stress  on  the  excellence  of 
the  young  man's  character,  as  well  as  on  the  prompt- 
ness with  which  he  had  relinquished  his  part  in  the 
plan  as  soon  as  he  saw  its  true  nature.    In  spite 
of  himself  Derek  began  to  think  of  the  lad  as  of 
one  who  had  sprung  to  his  help  in  a  moment  of 
need,  and  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  a  service. 
Not  until  Diane  ceased  speaking  was  he  able  to 
brush  this  absurd  impression  away,  in  the  knowl- 
288 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

edge  that  Dorothea,  who  should  have  arrived  nearly 
two  hours  ago,  was  still  out  in  the  «'  rk.  That,  for 
the  moment,  was  the  one  fact  to  which  everything 
else  was  subordinate. 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  he  said,  nervously.  "  If 
they  left  New  York  by  six,  or  even  seven,  they 
should  have  been  here  by  eleven  at  the  latest. 
That  would  have  given  them  time  for  slow  going 
or  taking  a  circuitous  route." 

He  rose  nervously  from  his  seat,  interviewed  the 
clerk  at  the  desk,  went  out  on  the  terrace,  listened 
in  the  silence,  walked  restlessly  up  and  down,  and, 
returning  to  Diane,  enumerated  the  different  pos- 
sibJities  that  would  reasonably  account  for  the 
delay.  Glad  of  this  preoccupation,  since  it  di- 
vened  thought  from  their  more  personal  relations, 
she  pointed  out  the  wisdom  of  accepting  whatever 
explanation  was  least  grave  until  they  knew  the 
cenainty.  When  he  had  gone  out  several  times 
more,  to  listen  on  the  terrace,  he  came  back,  and, 
resuming  his  seat,  said,  brusquely: 

"You  look  tired.  You  ought  to  get  some 
rest." 

The  tone  of  intimate  care  reached  Diane's  hean 
more  directly  than  words  of  greater  import. 

"I  would,"  she  said,  simply— "that  is,  I'd  go 
to  my  room  if  I  thought  you'd  be  kind  to  Dorothea 
when  she  came." 

"And  don't  you  think  so  ?" 
289 


THE     INNER      S  H  R  I  N  E 

"l  think  you'd  want  to  be,"  she  smiled,  "if  ww 
knew  how."  ' 

"But  I  shouldn't  know  how?" 
"You  sec,  it's  a  situation  that  calls  directly  for 
a  woman;  and  you're  so  essentially  a  man.  When 
Uorotfiea  arrives,  she  won't  be  a  headstrong  nm- 
sway  g.rl;  she'll  be  a  poor  little  terrified  child,  frighN 
ened  to  death  at  what  she  has  done,  and  wandng 
nothmg  so  much  as  to  creep  sobbing  into  her  motln 
«  f.fr'!  ^"^  ^^  comforted.    If  you  could  only— " 

I  H  do  anything  you  tell  me." 
"It's  no  use  telling;  you  have  to  know.    It's  a 
case  m  which  you  must  act  by  instinct,  and  not 
by  rule  of  thumb." 

In  her  eagerness  to  have  something  to  say  which 
would  keep  conversation  away  from  dangerous 
themes,  she  spoke  exhaustively  on  the  subject  of 
parental  tact,  holding  well  to  the  thread  of  her  topic 
until  she  perceived  that  he  was  not  so  much  listen- 
ing to  what  she  said  as  thinking  of  her.  But  she 
had  gained  her  point,  and  led  him  to  see  that 
Dorothea  was  to  be  treated  leniendy,  which  wa« 
sutticient  for  the  moment 

"Now,"  she  finished,  rising,  "I  J,ink  I'll  tak« 
your  advice,  and  go  and  rest  till  she  comes.  That*! 
my  door,  just  opposite.  I  chose  the  room  for  iu 
convenience  m  receiving  Dorothea.  You'll  be  sum 
to  call  me,  won't  you,  the  minute  you  hear  th> 
•ound  of  wheels  f"  /  «• 

290 


TBB      INNER      SHRINE 

He  had  sat  gazing  up  at  her,  but  now  he,  too,  rose. 
It  was  a  minute  at  which  their  common  anxienr 
regarding  Dorothea  slipped   temporarily  into  the 
background,  allowing  the  main  question  at  issue 
between  them  to  assert  itself;  but  it  asserted  itself 
silently.     He  had  meant  to  speak,  but  he  could 
only  look.     She  had  meant  to  withdraw,  but  she 
remained   to  return   his  look  with   the  lingering, 
quiet,  steady  gaze  which  time  and  place  and  cir- 
cumstance seemed  to  make  the  most  natural  mode 
of  expression  for  the  things  that  were  vital  between 
them.      What  passed   thus  defied  all  analysis  of 
thought,  ?s  well  as  all  utterance  in  languagr,  but 
it  was  understood  by  each  in  his  or  her  own  way. 
To  her  it  was  the  greeting  and  farewell  of  soul^  in 
different  spheres,  who  again  pass  one  another  in 
space.     For  him  it  was  the  dumb,  stifled  ciy  of 
nature,  the  clai'Ti  of  a  heart  demanding  its  rightful 
place  in  another  heart,  the  protest  of  love  that  has 
been  debarred  from  its  return  by  a  cruel  code  of 
morals,  a  preposterous  convention,  grown  suddenly 
meaningless  to  a  woman  like  her  and  to  a  man  like 
him.     Something  like  this  it  would  have  been  a 
relief  to  him  to  cry  out,  had  not  the  strong  hand  of 
cus  .om  been  upon  him  and  forced  him  to  say  that 
which  was  far  below  the  pressure  of  his  yearning. 
"This  isn't  the  time  to  talk  about  what  I  owe 
you,"  he  said,  feeling  the  insufficiency  of  his  words; 
"it's  too  much  to  be  disposed  of  in  a  few  phrases." 
291 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I 


N  E 


^' On  the  contraiy,  you  owe  me  nothing  at  alL" 
**  We'll  not  dispute  the  point  now." 
"No;  but  I'd  rather  not  leave  you  under  a 
misapprehension.  If  I've  done  anything  to-night- 
been  of  any  use  at  all— it's  been  simply  because  I 
loved  Dorothea— and— and— it  was  right.  When 
It  was  in  my  power,  I  couldn't  have  refused  to  do  it 
for  any  one— for  any  one,  you  understand." 

"Oh  yes,  I  understand  perfectly;  but  any  one, 
m  the  same  circumstances,  would  feel  as  I  do. 
No,  not  as  I  do,"  he  corrected,  quickly.  "No  one 
else  in  the  world  could  feel — " 

"I'm  really  veiy  tired,"  she  said,  hurriedly;  "I'll 
go  now;   but  I  count  on  you  to  call  me." 

He  watched  her  while  she  glided  across  the  room; 
but  It  was  only  when  her  door  had  closed  and  he 
had  dropped  into  his  seat  that  he  was  able  to  state 
to  himself  the  fact  that  the  mere  sight  of  her  again 
had  demolished  all  the  barricades  he  had   been 
building  in  his  heart  against  her  for  the  last  six 
months.     They  had  fallen   more  easily  than   the 
walls  of  Jericho  at  the  blast  of  the  sacred  horn. 
The  inflection  of  her  voice,  the  look  from  her  eyes, 
the  gestures  of  her  hands,  had  dispelled  them  into 
nothingness,  like  ramparts  of  mist.      But  it  was 
not   that  alone  1     He  was   too   much   a   man    of 
affairs  not  to  give  credit  to  the  practical  abilities 
she  had  shown  that  night.      No  graces  of  person 
oc  charms  of  mind  or  resources  of  courage  could 
zgz 


'I'll 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

have  called  forth  his  admiration  more  effectively 
than  this  display  of  prosaic  executive  capacity. 
What  had  to  be  done  she  had  done  more  prompdy, 
wisely,  and  easily  than  any  man  could  have  accom- 
plished it.  She  had  foreseen  possibilities  and  fore- 
stalled accident  with  a  thoroughness  which  he  him- 
self  could  not  have  equalled. 

"My  God!"  he  groaned,  inwardly,  "what  a  wife 
she  would  have  made  for  any  manl  How  I  could 
have  loved  her,  if  it  hadn't  been  for—" 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  leaped  to  his  feet,  look- 
ing around  dazed  on  the  great  empty  hall,  at  the 
end  of  which  a  porter  slept  in  his  chair,  while  the 
clerk  blinked  drowsily  behind  his  desk. 

"I  do  love  her,"  he  declared  to  himself.  "All 
summer  long  I  have  uttered  blasphemies.  I  do 
love  her.  Whatever  she  may  have  been,  she  shall 
be  my  wife." 

Out  on  the  tenace  the  cold  wind  was  grateful, 
and  he  stood  for  a  minute  bareheaded,  letting  it 
blow  over  his  fevered  face  and  through  his  hair. 
It  had  risen  during  the  last  hour,  making  the  pines 
rock  slowly  in  the  starlight  and  sweUing  their  moan 
into  deep  sobs. 

As  Derek  Pruyn  paced  the  terrace  in  strained 

expectation  he  was  deceived  again  and  again  into 

the  thought  that  something  was  approaching.    Now 

it  was  the  champing  and  stamping  of  horses  toiling 

293 


!'H 


iiil 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  tf  R 

up  the  ascent;  now  it  was  the  bray  and  throb  of 
the  automobile;  now  it  was  the  voices  of  men,  con- 
versing or  calling  or  breaking  into  laughter.  Twenty 
times  he  hastened  to  the  steps  at  the  end  of  the 
terrace,  sure  he  could  not  have  been  mistaken, 
only  to  hear  the  earth -forces  sob  and  sough  and 
shout  again,  as  if  in  derision  of  this  puny,  pre- 
sumptuous mortal,  with  his  evanescent  joy  and 
pain. 

So  another  hour  passed.  His  mind  was  not  of 
the  imaginative  order  which  invents  disaster  in 
moments  of  suspense,  so  that  he  was  able  to  keep 
hi8  watch  more  patiently  than  many  another  might 
have  done.  Once  he  tried  to  smoke;  but  the  mere 
scent  of  tobacco  seemed  out  of  place  in  this  curious 
world,  alive  with  odd  psychical  suggestions,  and  he 
threw  the  cigar  away  into  the  darkness,  where  its 
light  glowed  reproachfully,  like  a  dying  eye,  till  it 
went  out. 

It  was  after  three  when  a  sudden  sound  from  the 
driveway  struck  his  ear;  but  he  had  been  deceived 
so  often  that  he  would  pay  it  no  attention.  Though 
it  seemed  like  the  unmistakable  approach  of  an 
automobile,  it  had  seemed  so  before,  and  he  would 
not  even  look  round  till  he  had  reached  the  distant 
end  of  the  terrace.  When  he  turned  he  could  see 
through  the  trees,  and  along  the  dark  line  of  the 
avenue,  the  advance  of  the  heralding  light.  Doro- 
thea  had  come  at  last.     She  was  even  cIom  upon 

28+ 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

them.     In  a  few  more  seconds  the  would  be  alight- 
ing at  the  steps. 

He  hurried  inside  to  wake  the  porter  and  warn 
Diane. 

"She's  here!"  he  called,  rapping  sharply  at  her 
door.     "Please  come!    Quick!" 

There  was  a  response  and  a  hurried  movement 
from  within,  but  he  did  not  wait  for  her  to  appear. 
When  she  came  out  of  her  room  she  could  see  from 
the  light  thrown  over  the  terrace  that  the  motor 
had  already  stopped  at  the  steps.  Some  one  was 
getting  out,  and  she  could  hear  men's  voices. 
Advancing  to  a  spot  midway  between  her  room 
and  the  main  entry,  she  stood  waiting  for  Derek 
to  bring  her  his  daughter.  A  moment  li -r  he 
sprang  into  the  light  of  the  doorway  with  features 
white  and  alarmed. 

"Go  back!"  he  cried  to  her,  with  a  commanding 
gesture.     "Go  back!" 

"  But  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"Go  back!"  he  ordered,  more  imperiously  than 
before. 

"Oh,  Derek,  it's  Dorothea!  She's  hurt.  I  must 
go  to  her.     I  will  not  go  back." 

She  rushed  toward  the  entry,  but  he  caught  her 
and  pushed  her  back. 

"  I  tell  you  you  must  go  back,"  he  repeated. 

"It's  Dorothea!"  she  cried.    "She's  hurt!   She's 
killed!    Let  me  go!    She  needs  mel" 
195 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

"It  isn't  Dorothea,"  he  whispered,  forcing  her 
over  the  threshold  of  her  own  room  and  trying 
to  close  the  door  upon  her. 

"  Then  what  is  it  f "  she  begged.  "  Tell  me  now. 
YouVe  hurting  me.  Let  me  go!  You're  kiUing 
me." 

"It's—" 

But  there  was  no  need  to  say  more,  for  the  main 
door  swung  open  again  and  the  Marquis  de  Bien- 
ville entered,  followed  by  a  porter  carrying  his 
valise. 

At  his  appearance  Derek  relinquished  Diane's 
hands,  and  Diane  herself  was  so  astonished  that  she 
stepped  plainly  into  view.  Not  less  astonished  than 
herself,  Bienville  stopped  stock-still,  looked  at  her, 
looked  into  the  room  behind  her,  looked  at  Derek 
with  a  long,  half- amused,  comprehending  stare, 
lifted  his  hat  gravely,  and  passtJ  on. 

When  he  had  gone  there  was  a  minute  of  dead 
silence.  With  parted  lips  and  awe-stricken  eyes 
Diane  gazed  after  him  till  he  had  spoken  to  the 
clerk  at  the  desk  and  passed  on  into  the  darker 
recesses  of  the  hotel.  When  she  turned  toward 
Derek  he  was  smiling,  with  what  she  knew  was  an 
effort  to  treat  the  situation  lightly. 

"Well,  this  time  we've  given  him  something  to 
talk  about,"  he  laughed,  bravely. 

She  shrugged  her  sh./ulders  and  spread  apart  her 
hands  with  one  of  her  habitual,  fatalistic  gestures. 
296 


THE      INNER 


SHRINE 


"I  don't  mind.  He  can't  do  me  more  harm 
than  he's  done  already.  It's  not  of  him  that  I'm 
thinking,  but  of  Dorothea.     She  hasn't  come." 

"No,  she  hasn't  come." 

The  fact  had  grown  alarming,  so  much  so  as  to 
make  the  incident  of  Bienville's  appearance  seem 
in  comparison  a  matter  of  little  moment.  Diane 
remained  on  the  threshold  of  her  room,  and  Derek  in 
the  hall  outside,  while,  for  mutual  encouragement, 
they  rehearsed  once  more  the  list  of  predicaments 
in  which  the  young  people  might  have  found  them- 
selves without  serious  danger. 

Diane  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  a  man  ran 
down  the  hall  calling: 

"The  telephone! — for  the  gentleman!" 

Derek  started  on  a  run,  Diane  following  more 
slowly.  When  she  reached  the  office  Derek  had 
the  receiver  to  his  ear  and  was  talking. 

"Yes,  Fulton.  Go  on.  I  hear.  .  .  .  Who  has 
rung  you  up  .?  ...  I  didn't  catch.  .  .  .  Miss— who  ? 
Oh,  Miss  Marion  Grimston.  Yes  ?  ...  In  Phila- 
delphia, at  the  Hotel  Belleville.  ...  Yes;  I  under- 
stand .  .  .  and  Miss  Dorothea  is  with  her Good! 

. . .  Did  she  say  how  she  got  there  ? .  .  .  Will  explain 
when  we  get  back  to  New  York  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. ...  All  right Yes,  to  lunch.  ...  She  said 

Miss  Dorothea  was  quite  well,  and  satisfied  with 
her  trip!  .  .  .  That's  good.  .  .  .  Well,  good-night, 
Fulton.     Sorry  to  have  kept  you  up." 
197 


THE      INNER      SHRINK 

He  put  up  the  receiver  and  turned  to  Diane. 

"Did  you  understand?" 

"  Perfectly.  I  think  I  know  what  has  happened 
I  can  guess." 

"Then,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can.     What  is  itT 

'I'll  let  them  tell  you  that  themselves.  I'm  too 
tired  to  say  anything  more  to-night." 

She  kept  close  to  the  office  where  the  clerk  wa« 
shutting  books  and  locking  drawers  preparatory  t» 
closing. 

"You  must  let  me  come  and  thank  you — "  he 
began. 

"You  must  thank  Miss  Marion  Grimston,''  she 
interrupted,  "for  any  real  service.  All  I've  done 
for  you,  as  you  see,  has  been  to  bring  you  on  an 
unne<;essary  journey." 

"For  me  it  has  been  a  journey — into  truth." 

"I'll  say  good-night  now.  I  shall  not  see  you  in 
the  morning.  You'll  not  forget  to  be  vety  pfinde 
with  Dorothea,  will  you — and  with  him?  Good- 
night again — good-night." 

Smiling  into  his  eyes,  she  ignored  the  hand  he 
held  out  to  her  and  slipped  away  into  the  semi- 
darkness  as  the  impatient  clerk  began  turning  out 
the  lights. 


li 


XXII 


DEREK  PRUYN  was  guilty  of  an  injustice  lo 
the  Marquis  de  Bienville  in  supposing  he 
would  make  the  incident  at  Lakefield  a  topic  of 
conversation  among  his  friends.  His  sense  of 
honor  alone  would  have  kept  him  from  betraying 
what  might  be  looked  upon  as  an  involuntary  con- 
fidence, even  if  it  had  not  better  suited  his  purposes 
to  intrust  the  matter,  in  the  form  of  an  amusing 
anecdote,  told  under  the  seal  of  secrecy,  to  Mrs. 
Bayford.  In  her  hands  it  was  like  invested  capital, 
adding  to  itself,  while  he  did  nothing  at  all.  Months 
of  insinuation  on  his  part  would  have  failed  to 
achieve  the  result  that  she  brought  about  in  a  few 
days'  time,  with  no  more  effort  than  a  rose  makes 
in  shedding  perfume. 

Before  Derek  had  been  able  to  recover  from  the 
feeling  of  having  passed  through  a  strange  waking 
dream,  before  Dorothea  and  he  had  resumed  the 
ordinaty  tenor  of  their  life  together,  before  he  had 
seen  Diane  again,  he  was  given  to  understand  that 
the  little  scene  on  Bienville's  arrival  at  the  Bay 
Tree  Inn  was  familiar  matter  in  the  offices,  banks, 
299 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

and  clubs  he  most  frequented.  The  intelligence 
was  conveyed  by  a  score  of  trivial  signs,  suggestive, 
satincal,  or  over-familiar,  which  he  would  not  have 
perceived  in  days  gone  by,  but  to  which  he  had 
grown  sensitive.  It  was  clear  that  the  stoiy  gained 
piquancy  from  its  contrast  with  the  staidness  of  his 
hfe;  and  his  most  intimate  friends  permitted  them- 
selves  a  litde  covert  "chaff"  with  him  on  the  evenL 
He  was  not  of  a  nature  to  resent  this  raillery  on  his 
own  accoi-.it;  it  was  serious  to  him  only  because  it 
touched  Diane. 

For  her  the  matter  was  so  grave  that  he  exhausted 
his  mgenuity  in  devising  means  for  her  projection. 
He  refrained  from  even  seeing  her  until  he  could 
go  with  some  ultimatum  before  which  she  should  be 
obliged  to  yvld.  An  unsuccessful  appeal  to  her, 
he  judged,  would  be  worse  than  none  at  all;  and 
until  he  discovered  arguments  which  she  could  not 
controvert  he  decided  to  hold  his  peace. 

Action  of  some  sort  became  imperative  when  he 
found  that  Miss  Lucilla  Van  Tromp  had  heard  the 
stoiy  and  drawn  from  it  what  seemed  to  her  the 
obvious  conclusion. 

''I  should  never  have  believed  it."  she  declared, 
tearfully,  "  ,f  you  hadn't  admitted  it  yourself  I  told 
Mrs.  Bayford  that  nothing  but  your  own  words  would 
convince  me  that  any  such  scene  had  taken  place." 
"Allowing  that  it  did,  isn't  it  conceivable  that  it 
nught  have  had  an  honorable  motive  f" 

)0O 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Then,  what  is  it  ?    If  you  could  tell  me  that — " 

"I  could  tell  you  easily  enough  if  there  weren't 
other  considerations  involved.  I  should  think  that 
in  the  circumstances  you  could  trust  ms." 

"Nobody  else  does,  Derek." 

"Whom  do  you  mean  by  nobody  else? — Mrs. 
Bayford  ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  not  the  only  one.  If  your  men  friends 
don't  believe  in  you — " 

"They  believftjft  me,  all  right;  don't  you  worry 
about  that." 

"They  may  believe  in  you  as  men  believe  in  one 
another;   but  it  isn't  the  way  I  believe  in  people." 

"  I  know  how  you  believe  in  people  if  ill-natured 
women  would  let  you  alone.  You  wouldn't  mis- 
trust a  thief  if  you  saw  him  stealing  your  watch 
from  your  pocket." 

"That's  not  true,  Derek.  I  can  be  as  suspicious 
as  any  one  when  I  like." 

"But  don't  you  see  that  your  suspicion  doesn't 
only  light  on  me  i     It  strikes  Diane." 

"That's  just  it." 

■'Lucilla!"  he  cried,  reproachfully. 

"Well,  Derek,  you  know  how  loyal  I've  been  to 
her.  It's  been  harder,  too,  than  you've  ever  been 
aware  of;  for  I  haven't  told  you — I  wouldn't  tell 
you — one-half  the  things  that  people  have  hinted 
to  me  during  the  past  two  years." 

"Yes;   but  who  ?    A  lot  of  jealous  women — " 

•0  ^01 


THE     I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

"It's  no  use  saying  that,  Derek;  because  your 
own  actions  contradict  you.  Why  did  Diane  leave 
your  house,  if  it  wasn't  that  you  believed—?" 

"Don't."  He  raised  his  hand  to  his  face,  as  if 
protecting  hinrelf  from  a  blow. 

"I  wouldn't,"  she  cried,  "if  you  didn't  make  me. 
I  say  It  only  in  self-defence.  After  all,  you  can  only 
accuse  me  of  what  you've  done  yourself.  Diane 
made  me  think  at  first  that  you  had  misjudged  her; 
but  I  see  now  that  if  she  had  been  a  good  woman 
you  wouldn't  have  sent  her  away." 

"I  didn't  send  her  away.     She  went" 
"Yes,  Derek;   but  why?" 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question  under 
discussion." 

"On  the  contrary,  it  has  everything  to  do  with 
It.  It  all  belongs  together.  I've  loved  Diane, 
and  defended  her;  but  I've  come  to  the  point 
where  I  can't  do  it  any  longer.  After  what's  hap^ 
pened —  '^ 

"  But,  I  tell  you,  what's  happened  is  nothing!  If 
It  was  only  right  for  me  to  explain  it  to  you,  as  I 
shall  explain  it  to  you  some  day,  you'd  find  yo.. 
owed  her  a  debt  that  you  never  could  repay." 

"Veij,  well!  I  won't  dispute  it.  It  still  doesn't 
attect  the  mam  point  at  issue.  Can  you  yourself, 
Uerek,  honestly  and  truthfully  affirm  that  you  look 
upon  Diane  as  a  good  woman,  in  the  sense  that  w 
usually  attached  to  the  words  ?' 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"I  can  honestlj  and  truthfully  affirm  that  I 
look  upon  her  as  one  of  the  best  women  in  the 
world." 

"That  isn't  the  point  Louise  de  la  Valliere  be- 
came one  of  the  best  women  in  the  world;  but  there 
are  some  other  things  that  might  be  said  of  her. 
But  I'll  not  argue;  I'll  not  insist.  Since  you  think 
I'm  wrong,  I'll  take  your  own  word  for  it,  Derek. 
Just  tell  me  once,  tell  me  without  quibble  and  on 
your  honor  as  my  cousin  and  a  gentleman,  that  yoH 
believe  Diane  to  be — what  I've  supposed  her  to  be 
hitherto,  and  what  you  know  very  well  I  mean,  and 
I'll  not  doubt  it  further." 

For  a  moment  he  stood  speechless,  trying  to 
formulate  the  lie  he  could  utter  most  boldly,  until 
he  was  struck  with  the  double  thought  that  to  de- 
fend Diane's  honor  with  a  falsehood  would  be  to 
defame  it  further,  while  a  lie  to  this  pure,  trusting, 
virginal  spirit  would  be  a  crime. 

"Tell  me,  Derek,"  she  insisted;  "tell  me,  and 
I'll  believe  you." 

He  retreated  a  pace  or  two,  as  if  trying  to  get 
out  of  her  presence. 

"I'm  listening,  Derek;  go  on;  I'm  willing  to 
take  your  word." 

"Then  I  repeat,"  he  said,  weakly,  "that  I  be- 
lieve her,  I  know  her,  to  be  one  of  the  best  women 
in  the  world." 

"Like  Lo    se  de  la  Valliere?" 
3°3 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  r  isr  ^ 

"Yes,"  he  shouted,  maddened  to  the  retort,  "like 
Louise  de  la  Vallierej^.'bid  what  then  r 
He  stood  as  if  demanding  a  reply. 
"Nothing.     I  have  no  more  to  say." 
"Then  I  have;  and  I'll  ask  you  to  listen."    H« 
drew  near  to  her  again  and  spoke  slowly.    "There 
^  were  doubtless  many  good  women  in  Jerusalem  in 
,  the  t.me  of  Herod  and  Pilate  and  Christ;   but  not 
the  least  held  m  honor  among  us  to-day  is-the 
Magdalen.     That's  one  thing;    and  here's  some- 
thmg  .nore      There  is  joy,  so  we  are  told,  in  the 
presence  of  the  angels  of  God-plenty  of  it,  let  us 
hope!-but  .t  isn't  over  the  ninety-and-nine  just 
persons  who  need  no  repentance,  so  mur',  ,     'ver 
the    one    poor,   deserted,   lonely   sinner  that   re- 
penteth— that  repenMh.  LuciUa,  do  you  hear?- 
and  you  know  whom  I  mean." 

With  this  as  his  confession  of  faith  he  left  her 
to  go  m  search  of  Diane.  He  had  formed  the 
ultimatum  before  which,  as  he  uelieved,  she  should 
nnd  herself  obliged  to  surrender. 

It  was  a  day  on  which  Diane's  mood  was  one  of 
comparative  peace.  She  was  engrossed  in  an  occu- 
pation  which  at  once  soothed  her  spirits  and  ap- 
pealed to  her  taste.  Madame  Cauchat,  the  land- 
lady,  bewaihng  the  continued  illness  of  her  lingh-e 
Diane  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  take  charge  of 
the  hnen-room  of  the  hotel,  not  merely  as  a  mean. 
304 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

ef  earning  a  living,  but  because  she  delighted  in 
•uch  work.  Methodical  in  her  habits  and  nimble 
with  her  needle,  the  neatness,  smoothness,  and  purity 
of  piles  of  white  damask  stirred  all  those  house- 
wifely, home-keeping  instincts  which  are  so  large 
a  part  of  every  Frenchwoman's  nature.  Her  fin- 
gers busy  with  the  quiet,  delicate  task  of  mending, 
her  mind  could  dwell  with  the  greater  content  on 
such  subjects  as  she  had  for  satisfaction. 

They  were  more  numerous  than  they  had  been 
for  a  long  time  past.  The  meeting  at  Lakefield  had 
changed  her  mental  attitude  toward  Derek  Pruyn, 
taking  a  large  part  of  the  pain  out  of  her  thoughts 
of  him,  as  well  as  out  of  his  thoughts  of  her.  She 
had  avoided  seeing  him  after  that  one  night,  and 
she  had  heard  nothing  from  him  since;  but  she 
knew  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  go  on  thinking 
of  her  altogether  harshly.  She  had  been  useful  to 
him;  she  had  saved  Dorothea  from  a  great  mistake; 
she  had  done  it  in  such  a  way  that  no  hint  of  the 
escapade  was  likely  to  become  known  outside  of  the 
few  who  had  taken  part  in  it;  she  had  put  herself 
in  a  relation  toward  him  which,  as  a  final  one,  was 
much  to  be  preferred  to  that  which  had  existed 
before.  She  could  therefore  pass  out  of  his  life 
more  satisfied  than  she  had  dared  hope  to  be  with 
the  effect  that  she  had  had  upon  it.  As  she  stitched 
she  sighed  to  herself  with  a  certain  comfort,  when, 
glancing  up,  she  saw  him  standing  at  the  door. 
305 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

The  nature  of  her  thoughts,  coupled  with  hi» 
ludden  appearance,  drew  to  her  lips  a  quiet  smile. 

"They  shouldn't  have  shown  you  in  here,"  sh« 
protested,  gently,  letting  her  work  fall  to  her  lap, 
but  not  rising  from  her  place. 

"I  insisted,"  he  explained,  briefly,  from  the 
threshold. 

"You  can  come  in,"  she  smiled,  as  he  continued 
to  stand  in  the  doorway.  "You  can  even  sit 
down."  She  pointed  to  a  chair,  not  far  from  her 
own,  going  on  again  with  her  stitching,  so  as  to 
avoid  the  necessity  for  further  greeting.  "I  sup- 
pose you  wonder  what  I'm  doing,"  she  pursued, 
when  he  had  seated  himself. 

"I'm  not  wondering  at  that  so  much  as  whether 
you  ought  to  be  doing  it." 

"I  can  relieve  your  mind  on  that  score.  It's  a 
case,  too,  in  which  duty  and  pleasure  jump  to- 
gether; for  the  delight  of  handling  beautiful  linen 
is  like  nothing  else  in  the  world." 

"It  seems  to  me  like  servants'  work,"  he  said, 
bluntly. 

"Possibly;  but  I  can  do  servants'  work  at  r 
pinch — especially  when  I  like  it" 

"I  don't,"  he  declared. 

"  But  then  you  don't  have  to  do  it.** 

"I  mean  that  I  don't  like  it  for  you." 

"Even  so,  you  wouldn't  forbid  my  cooing  i^ 
would  you?" 

306 


THE      IN 


R      SHRINE 


"I  wish  I  had  t'  ';  'ight  to.  I've  come  here  this 
afternoon  to  ask  j^u  -igiin  it  you  won't  give  it 
to  me." 

For  a  few  minutes  she  stitched  in  silence.  When 
she  spoke  it  was  without  stopping  her  work  or  lift- 
ing her  head. 

"I'm  soriy  that  you  should  raise  that  question 
again.     I  thought  it  was  settled." 

"Supposing  it  was,  it  can  be  reopened — if  there't 
a  reason." 

"  But  there  is  none." 

"That's  all  you  know  about  it.  There's  a  verjr 
important  reason." 

"  Since — ^when  ?" 

"Since  Lakefield." 

"Do  you  mean  anything  that  Monsieur  de  Bien<' 
ville  may  have  said  ?" 

"I  do." 

"That  wouldn't  be  a  reason — ^for  me." 

"But  you  don't  know — " 

"I  can  imagine.  Monsieur  de  Bienville  has  a^ 
ready  done  me  all  the  harm  he  can.  It's  beyond 
his  power  to  hun  me  any  more." 

"  But,  Diane,  you  don't  know  what  you're  saying. 
You  don't  know  what  he's  doing.  He's — he's — I 
hardly  know  how  to  put  it —  He's  destroying  yoiK 
reputation." 

She  glanced  up  with  a  smile,  ceasing  for  an  iii< 
to  sew. 

307 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  1  N  B 

"You  mean,  he's  destroying  what's  left  of  it 
Well,  he's  welcome!  There  was  so  little  oi  it—" 
"For  God's  sake,  Diane,  don't  say  that;  it  breaks 
my  heart.  You  must  consider  the  position  that 
you  put  me  in.  After  you've  rendered  me  one  of 
the  greatest  services  one  person  can  do  another,  do 
you  think  I  can  sit  quietly  by  while  you  are  being 
robbed  of  the  dearest  thing  in  life,  just  because  you 
did  it?"  ^ 

"1  should  be  sorry  to  think  the  opinion  other 
people  hold  of  me  to  be  the  dearest  thing  m  life; 
but,  even  if  it  were,  I'd  willingly  give  it  up  for— 
Dorothea." 
"It  isn't  for  Dorothea;  it's  for  me." 
"  Well,  wouldn't  you  let  me  do  it— for  you  ?    I'm 
not  of  much  use  in  the  world,  but  it  would  make  me 
a  little  happier  to  think  I  could  do  any  one  a  good 
turn  without  being  promised  a  reward." 
"A  rewardl    Oh,  Diane!" 
"It's  what  you're  offering  me,  isn't  it?    If  it 
hadn't  been  for- for— the  great  servica  you  speak 
about,  you  wouldn't  he  here,  asking  me  again  to 
be  your  wife." 

"That's  your  way  of  putting  it,  but  I'll  put  it 
in  mine.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  magnitude  of 
the  sacrifice  you're  willing  to  make  foi  me,  I 
shouldn't  have  dared  to  hope  that  you  loved  me. 
When  all  pretexts  and  secondaiy  causes  have  been 
considered  and  thrust  aside,  that's  why  I'm  here. 
308 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

and  for  no  other  reason  whatever.  If  you  love 
me,"  he  continued,  "why  should  you  hesitate  any 
longer?  If  you  love  me,  why  seek  for  reasons  to 
justify  the  simple  prompting  of  your  heart  ?  What 
have  you  and  I  got  to  do  with  other  people's  opin- 
ions ?  When  there's  a  plain,  straightforward  course 
before  us,  why  not  go  right  on  and  follow  it  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  for  one  brief  glance. 

"You  forget." 

The  words  were  spoken  quietly,  but  they  startled 
him. 

"Yes,  Diane;  I  do  forget.  Rather,  there's  noth- 
ing left  for  me  to  remember.  I  know  what  you'd 
have  me  recall.  I'll  speak  of  it  this  once  more,  to 
be  silent  on  the  subject  forever.  I  want  you  to 
forgive  me.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I,  too,  have 
repented." 

"Repented  of  what?" 

"  Of  the  wrong  I've  done  you.  I  believe  your  soul 
to  be  as  white  as  all  this  whiteness  around  you." 

"Then,"  she  continued,  questioning  gently, 
"you've  changed  you-  point  of  view  during  the 
last  six  months  ?" 

"  I  have.  You  charged  me  then  with  being  will- 
ing to  come  down  to  your  level;  now  I'm  asking 
you  to  let  me  climb  up  to  it.  I  see  that  I  was  a 
self-righteous  Pharisee,  and  that  the  true  man  is 
he  who  can  smite  his  breast  and  say,  God  be  merci< 
ful  to  me  a  sinnerl" 

309 


ly 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I 


N  E 


"A  sinner — like  me." 

"I^tJon't  want  to  be  lej  into  further  explana- 
tions, he  said,  suddenly  on  his  guard  against  her 
.ns.nuat.ons.  "You  and  I  have  said  too  much  to 
each  other  not  to  be  able  to  be  frank.  Now  I've 
been  frank  enough.  You've  understood  what  I've 
telt  at  other  times;  you  understand  what  I  feel  to- 

pSnl  1"^  *""  °'"'  '°  '"^'''  "'^  'P"*^  ""^"^ 

"t7t  ""?  "°'  "^""^'"S  yo"  °"t."  she  declared. 
It  1  ask  you  a  question  or  two,  it  was  to  show 
you  that  not  even  the  woman  that  you  take  me  for 
-not  even  the  forgiven  penitent-could  be  a  good 
wife  for  you.  I  can't  marry  you,  Mr.  Pruyn  I 
miKt  beg  you  to  let  that  answer  be  decisive  " 

There  was  decision  in  the  way  in  which  she 
lolded  her  work  and  smoothed  the  wliite  brocaded 
surface  in  her  lap.  There  was  decision,  too.  in 
the  quickness  with  which  he  rose  a»d  stood  lookine 
down  at  her.  For  a  second  she  expected  him  to 
turn  from  her,  as  he  had  turned  once  before,  and 
leave  her  with  no  explanation  beyond  a  few  laconic 
words  She  held  her  breath  while  she  awaited  them. 
Ihen  that  means,"  he  said,  at  last,  "that  you 
put  me  in  the  position  of  taking  all,  while  you  give 

"I  don't  put  you  in  any  position  whatever.     The 
arcumstances  are  not  of  my  making.     They  are  as 
much  beyond  my  control  as  they  are  beyond  yours." 
310 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"They're  not  wholly  beyond  mine.  If  there  ar« 
some  things  I  can't  do,  there  are  some  I  can  p». 
vent.  "^ 

"What  things?" 

His  tone  alarmed  her,  and  she  struggled  to  her 
tccc 

"You're  willing  to  make  me  a  great  sacrifice; 
but  at  least  I  can  refuse  to  accept  it." 

"What  do  you  mean.?"  She  moved  slightly 
back  from  him,  behind  the  protection  of  one  of 
u.e  tables  piled  breast-high  with  its  white  load 

You  re  wilhng  to  lose  for  me  the  last  vestige 
ot  your  good  name — " 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  that,"  she  said, 
hurriedly. 

"  But  I  do.     I  won't  let  you." 
"How  can  you  stop  me?"  she  asked,  staring  at 
him  with  large,  frightened  eyes. 

"I  shall  tell  Dorothea's  part  in  the  story." 
"You'd—?"  she  began,  with  a  questioning  cry 
All  who  care  to  hear  it,  shall,      /hey  shall  know 
W  from  Its  begmnmg  to  its  end.     They  shall  Jose 
«io  detail  of  her  folly  or  of  your  wisdom." 
l^'You  would  sacrifice  your  child  iike  that?" 
Yes,  hke  that.    Neither  she  nor  I  can  remain 
so  indebted  to  any  one,  as  you  would  have  us  be 
to  you." 

*'  You— wouldn't— be— indebted— to— me  ?" 
"Not  to  so  terrible  an  extent.     If  it's  a  choke 
3" 


THE     INNER      S  H  R  1  M  » 

between  your  good  name  and  hers-hers  must  ga 
^>he  d  agree  with  mc  herself.  She  wouldn't  hesi- 
Ote  for  one  single  fraction  of  an  instant— if  she 
knew.  She'd  be  grateful  to  you,  as  I  am;  but 
she  couldn  t  profit  by  your  magnanimity." 

"So  that  the  alternative  you  offer  me  is  this-  I' 
can  protect  myself  by  sacrificing  Dorothea,  or  I 
can  marty  you,  and  Dorothea  will  be  saved." 

"I  shouldn't  express  it  in  just  those  words,  but 
It  s  somethmg  like  it." 

"Then  I'll  many  you.     You  give  me  a  choice 
ot  evils,  and  I  take  the  least." 

"u^'  ^''^"  '°  "^^^^  ""^  ^°"'^  ''«— an  evil  ?" 
^  What  else  do  you  make  it.?  You'll  admit  that 
It  s  a  little  difficult  to  keep  pace  with  you.  You 
come  to  me  one  day  accusing  me  of  sin,  and  on 
another  announcing  my  contrition,  while  on  the 
third  you  may  be  in  some  entirely  different  mood 
about  me." 

"You  can  easily  render  me  ridiculous.  That's 
due  to  my  awkwardness  of  expression  and  not  to 
anything  wrong  in  the  way  I  feel." 

"Oh  but  isn't  it  out  of  the  heart  that  the  mouth 
speaketh?  I  think  so.  You've  advanced  some  ex- 
cellent reasons  why  I  should  become  j^our  wife 
and  I  can  see  that  you're  quite  capable  of  believ- 
ing them.  At  one  rime  it  was  because  I  needed  a 
home,  at  another  because  I  needed  protection, 
while  to  day.  I  understand,  it  is  because  I  love  you." 
3" 


THE     INNER      S  H  P  r  M  ^ 

"Is  this  fair?"  ' 

"I  dare  say  you  think  it  isn't;  but  then  you 
haven  t  been  tried  and  judged  half  a  dozen  times, 
unheard  as  I  ve  been.  I'll  confess  that  you've 
shown  the  most  wonderful  ingenuity  in  trying  to 
get  me  mto  a  position  where  I  should  be  obliged 
to  many  you,  whether  I  would  or  not;  and  now 
you  ve  succeeded.  Whether  the  game  is  worth  the 
candle  or  not  .s  for  you  to  judge;  my  part  is 
limited  to  saymg  that  you've  won.  I'm  ready  to 
mariy  you  as  soon  as  you  tell  me  when." 

"To  save  Dorothea?" 

"To  save  Dorothea." 

"And  for  no  other  reason  ?" 

"For  no  other  reason." 
^  men,  of  course,  I  can't  keep  you  to  your 

"You  can't  release  me  from  it  except  on  one 
condition.  "^ 

"Which  is—?" 

"That  Dorothea's  secret  shall  be  kept." 

'•I  must  use  my  own  judgment  about  that." 
On  the  contrary,  you  must  use  mine.     You've 
made  me  a  proposal  which  I'm  ready  to  accept. 
As  a  man  of  honor  you  must  hoW  to  it— or  be 
silent." 

"Possibly,"  he  admitted,  on  reflection.  "I  shall 
have  to  think  it  over.  But  in  that  case  we'd  be 
just  where  we  were — " 

313 


II 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 
"Yes;  just  where  we  were." 
"And   you'd    be   without   help   or   protection. 
ITiats  the  thought  I  can't  endure,  Diane     Trr 
to  be  just  to  me.     If  I  make  mistakes,  if  I  flounder 
about,  ,f  I  say  things  that  offend  you,  it's  because 
1  can  t  rest  while  you're  exposed  to  danger.    Alone, 
as  you  are,  m  this  great  city,  surrounded  by  people 
who  are  not  your  friends,  a  prey  to  criticism  and 
misapprehension,  when  it  is  no  worse,  it's  as  if  J 
saw  you  flung  into  the  arena  among  the  beasts. 
Can  you  wonder  that  I  want  to  stand  by  you? 
Can  you  be  surprised  if  I  demand  the  privilege  of 
clasping  you  in  my  arms  and  saying  to  the  world. 
This  IS  my  wife?    When  Christian  women  were 
thrown  to  the  lions  there  was  once  a  heathen  hus- 
band  who  leaped  into  the  ring,  to  die  at  his  wife's 
side,  because  he  could  do  no  more.     That's  my 
impulse-only  I  could  save  you  from  the  lions.     I 
couldn  t  protect  you  against  everything,  perhaps, 
but  I  could  against  the  worst.    I  know  I'm  stupid 
I  know  1  m  dull.    When  I  come  near  you.  I'm  like 
the  clown  who  touches  some  exquisite  tissue,  spun 
of  azure;   but  I'm  like  the  clown  who  would  fight 
for  his  treasure,  and  defend  it  from  sacrilegious 
hands,  and  spend  his  last  drop  of  blood  to  keep  it 
pure.     It's  to  be  put  in  a  position  where  I  can't  do 
Aatjhat  I  find  hard.    It's  to  see  you  so  defence- 

"But  I'm  not  defenceless." 
3'4 


THE      INNER      S  H  R  I  N  E 


■  -no- 


"Why  not?    Wliom  have  you?    Nobody- 
body  in  this  wo'Id  but  me  " 
"Oh  yes,  I  have." 
"Who?" 

She  smiled  faintly  at  the  fierceness  of  his  brief 
^uesuon. 

"It's  no  one  to  whom  you  need  feel  any  opposi- 
oon.  even  though  it's  some  one  who  can  do  for  me 
what  you  cannot." 
"What  I  cannot?" 

"  What  you  cannot;  what  no  man  can.  Asperges 
me  hyssopo,  et  muniahor.  Thou  shalt  purge  me 
with  hyssop,  and  I  shall  be  clean.  Derek,  He  has 
purged  me  with  hyssop,  even  though  it  has  not 
been  in  the  way  you  think.  With  the  hyssop  of 
what  I  ve  had  to  suffer  He  has  purged  mt  from  so 
many  thmgs  tliat  now  I  see  I  can  safely  commit 
my  cause  to  Him." 

"So  that  you  don't  need  me?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence  before  she  replied: 

^•Not  for  defence."  ^ 

"Nor  for  anything  else  ?" 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  hor  voice  failed  her. 

•Nor  for  anything  else?"  he  asked  again. 

Her  voice  was  faint,  her  head  sank,  her  bodjj 
trembled,  but  she  forced  the  one  word,  "Na" 


XXIII 


"M 


ADEMOISELLE  has  sent  for  me  ?"    Bien. 


villa  kissed  the  hand  that  Miss  Grimston, 
without  rising  from  her  comfortable  chair  before 
the  fire,  lifcifl  toward  him.  The  hand-screen  with 
which  she  shielded  her  face  protected  her  not  only 
from  the  blaze,  but  from  his  scrutiny.  In  the  same 
way,  the  winter  gloaming,  with  its  uncertain  lig^t, 
nerved  her  against  her  fear  of  self-betrayal,  giving 
her  that  assurance  of  being  mistress  of  herself  which 
she  lacked  when  he  was  near. 

"I  did  send  for  you.  I  wanted  to  see  you. 
Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

"I've  been  expecting  the  summons,"  he  said, 
significantly,  taking  the  seat  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hearth. 

"Indeed?    Why?" 

"I  thought  the  day  would  come  when  you  would 
be  more  just  to  me." 

"You  thought  I'd— hear  things?" 

"Perhaps." 

"I  have.    That's  why  I  asked  you  to  come." 

During  the  brief  silence  before  she  spoke  agaiv 
316 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

he  was  able  to  congratulate  himself  on  his  diplo- 
macy.    He  had  checked  his  first  impulse  to  come 
to  her  with  his  great  news  immediately  on  his  re- 
turn from  Lakefitld.     He  had  seen  how  relatively 
ineffective  the    information  would    be  were  it  to 
proceed  bluntly  from  himself.     He  had  even  re- 
strained Mrs.   Bayford's  enthusiasm,  in  order  to 
let  the  intelligence  filter  gently  through  the  neutral 
agencies  of  common  gossip.     In  this  way  it  would 
•eem  to  Miss  Grimston  a  discovery  of  her  own, 
and  appeal  to  her  as  an  indirect  corroboration  of 
his  word.     He  had  the  less  scruple  in  taking  these 
precautions   in  that    he    believed   Diane   to  have 
justified  anything  he  might  have  said  of  her.     It 
was  no  small  relief  to  a  man  of  honor  to  know  he 
had  not  been  guilty  of  a  gratuitous  slander,  even 
though  it  was  only  on  a  woman.     He  awaited  Miss 
Grimston's    next  words  with    complacent    expec- 
tancy, but  when  they  came  they  surprised  him. 

"I  wondered  a  little  why  you  should  have  been 
at  Ukefield." 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  think  it  was  for  a  very  foolish 
reason,"  he  laughed,  "but  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  want 
to  know.     I  went  because   I   thought  you   were 
there." 
"I?    At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.'" 
"It  was  like  this,"  he  went  on.     "You'll  pardon 
me  if  I  say  anything  to  give  you  offence,  but  you'll 
understand  the  reason  why.     On  the  day  when  we 
3'7 


I 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

all  lunched  together  at  the  Restaurant  Blitz — you, 
Madame  your  aunt,  your  friend  Monsieur  Reggie 
Bradfcird,  and  I — I  was  a  little  jealous  of  some 
understanding  between  you  two,  in  which  I  was 
not  included.  You  spoke  together  m  whispers, 
and  exchanged  glances  in  such  a  way  that  all 
my  fears  were  aroused.  .Vterward  you  went  away 
with  him  That  evening,  at  the  Stuyvesant  Club, 
I  heard  a  strange  rumor.  It  was  whispered  from 
one  to  another  until  it  reached  me.  Your  friend 
Monsieur  Bradford  is  not  a  silent  person,  and  what 
he  knows  is  sure  to  become  common  property. 
The  rumor — which  I  grant  you  was  an  absurd  one 
— ^was  to  the  effect  that  he  had  persuaded  you  to 
run  away  and  marry  him;  and  that  you  had  act- 
ually been  seen  on  the  way  to  Lake  field  in  his 
car. 

"I  was  in  his  car.  That's  quite  true." 
"Ah  f  Then  there  was  some  foundation  for  the 
report.  Madame  your  aunt  will  have  told  you 
how  I  hurried  here,  about  eleven  o'clock  rfiat 
night.  You  had  disappeared,  leaving  nothing  be- 
hind but  an  enigmatic  note  saying  you  would  ex- 
plain your  absence  in  the  morning.  What  was  I 
to  think.  Mademoiselle  ?  I  was  afraid  to  think. 
I  didn't  stop  to  think.  I  determined  to  follow  you. 
It  was  too  late  for  any  train,  so  I  took  an  auto. 
I  reached  the  Bay  Tree  Inn — and  saw  what  I  saw. 
Foilhr' 

318 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

A  smile  of  amusement  flickered  over  her  graw 
features,  but  she  made  no  remark. 

"If  I  was  guilty  of  an  indiscretion  in  following 
you,  Mademoiselle,"  he  pursued,  "it  was  because 
of  my  great  love  for  you.  If  you  had  chosen  to 
marry  some  one  else,  I  couldn't  have  kept  you  from 
It;  but  at  least  I  was  determined  to  try.  Though 
I  thought  it  incredible  that  you  should  take  a  step 
like  that,  in  secrecy  and  flight,  yet  I  find  so  many 
strange  ways  of  marrying  in  America  that  I  must 
be  pardoned  for  my  fear.  As  it  is,  I  cannot  regret 
It,  smce,  by  a  miracle,  it  gave  me  proof  of  that 
which  you  have  found  it  so  difiicult  to  believe.  It 
has  grieved  me  more  than  I  could  ever  make  you 
understand  to  know  that  during  all  these  months 
you  have  doubted  me." 

"I'm  sure  of  that,"  she  said,  softly,  gazing  into 
the  fire.  "  But  haven't  you  wondered  where  I  was 
that  night  when  you  followed  me  to  Lakefield  i" 
"If  I  have,  I  shouldn't  presume  to  inquire." 
"It's  a  secret;  but  I  should  like  to  tell  it  to  you. 
I  know  you'll  guard  it  sacredly,  because  it  concerns 
— a  woman's  honor." 

Though  she  did  not  look  up,  she  felt  the  startled 
toss  of  the  head,  characteristic  of  his  moments  of 
alarm. 

"If  Mademoiselle  is  pleased  to  be  satirical " 

'No.     There's  no  reason  why  I  should  be  satir- 
ical.    If,  in  spite  of  everything,  my  confidence  in 
3'9 


i"'l: 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

you  wasn't  absolute,  I   shouldn't   risk   a  name  I 
hold  so  dear  as  that  of  Dorothea  Pruyn." 

"Tiens!"  he  exclaimed,  under  his  breath. 

"Miss  Pruyn  is  a  charming  girl,  but  she's  been 
very  foolish.  What  she  did  was  not  quite  so  bad 
in  American  eyes  as  it  would  be  in  French  ones, 
but  it  was  certainly  very  wilful.  If  you  heard 
rumors  of  an  elopement,  it  was  hers." 

"Mon  Dieul    With  the  big  Monsieur  Reggie.?" 

"Not  quite.  I  needn't  tell  you  the  young  man's 
name;  it  will  be  enough  to  say  that  the  big  Mon- 
sieur Reggie,  as  you  call  him,  was  in  his  conlidence. 
It  was  Reggie  who  undertook  to  convey  Dorothea 
to  Lakefield,  where  she  was  to  meet  the  bride- 
groom-elect and  marry  him." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  Reggie  told  me.  It  was  silly  of  any  one 
to  intrust  him  with  a  mission  of  the  kind,  for  he 
couldn't  possibly  keep  it  to  himself  He  told  me 
while  we  were  lunching  at  the  Blitz.  That's  what 
he  was  whispering.  That's  why  I  went  away  with 
him  after  lunch  and  left  you  with  my  aunt.  I  saw 
you  were  annoyed,  but  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"You  wanted  to  dissuade  him?" 

"I  tried;  but  I  saw  it  was  too  late  for  that 
Reggie  wouldn't  desert  his  friend  at  the  last  minute. 
The  only  concession  I  could  wring  from  him  wat 
that  he  should  let  me  take  his  place  in  the  motor." 

"You?" 

3» 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

"l  drive  at  least  as  well  as  Mr.  Bradford.     I 

made  him  see  that  in  case  of  accident  it  would 

make  all  the  difference  in  the  world  to  Miss  Pruyn's 

future  life  to  be  with  a  woman,  rather  than  a  man." 

"  Did  you  make  her  see  it,  too  ?" 

"I   didn't   try.    The  arrangements   these  wise 

young  people  had  made  rendered  the  substitution 

easy.     Dorothea  had  apparently  considered  it  pan 

of  the  romance  not  to  know  with  whom  she  was 

going,  or  where  she  was  being  taken.    At  the  time 

and   place   appointed   she  found   an   automobile, 

driven  by  a  person  in  a  hig  fur  coat,  a  cap,  and 

goggles.     It  was  agreed  that  she  should  enter  and 

ask  no  questions." 

"And  did  she.?" 

"She  fulfilled  her  engagement  to  the  letter.  As 
icon  as  she  was  seated  I  drove  away;  and  for  six 
hours  I  didn't  hear  a  sound  from  her." 

"Six  hours?  Did  it  take  you  all  that  time  to 
reach  Lakefield  ?" 

"I  didn't  go  to  Lakefield.  I  took  her  to  Phila- 
delphia. My  one  object  was  to  keep  her  from 
meeting  the  young  man  that  night;  but  perhaps 
that's  where  I  made  my  mistake." 

"But  why?  It  was  better  for  her  that  she 
shouldn't." 

"For  her,  perhaps;   but  not  for  every  one  else. 
You  see,  I  lost  my  way  two  or  three  times;  though, 
as  T  had  been  over  the  ground  twice  already,  I  was 
321 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

always  able  to  right  myself  after  a  while.  Near 
Trenton,  Dorothea  got  frightened,  and  when  I 
peeped  inside  I  could  see  she  was  crying.  As  all 
danger  was  over  then,  I  stopped  and  let  her  so* 
who  I  was." 

"Was  she  ang:y?" 

"Quite  the  contrary!  The  poor  child  was  terri- 
fied at  her  own  rashness,  and  very  much  relieved 
to  find  she  had  been  kept  from  being  as  foolish  as 
she  had  intended^  I  got  in  beside  her,  and  let  her 
have  her  cry  out  in  comfort.  After  that  we  ate 
some  sandwiches  and  took  heart.  It  was  weird 
work,  in  the  dead  of  night  and  along  the  lonely 
roads;  but  we  pushed  on,  and  crept  into  Phila- 
delphia between  one  and  two  in  the  morning." 

"That  was  a  very  brave  act.  Mademoiselle." 
Bienville's  eyes  glistened  and  his  face  lighted  up 
with  an  ardor  that  was  not  dampened  by  the  casual, 
almost  listless,  air  with  which  she  told  her  story. 

"It  might  have  been  better  if  I  had  let  the  whole 
thing  alone." 

"Why  so  ?" 

"You  can  rarely  interfere  in  other  people's  affairs 
without  doing  more  harm  than  good.  If  I  had  let 
them  go  their  own  way,  Diane  Eveleth  wouldn't 
have  been  put  in  a  false  position." 

"Ahr 

"That's  the  other  part  of  the  story.  If  I  had 
known,  I  should  have  left  the  matter  in  her  band*. 

322 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

She  would  have  managed  it  better  than  I.     A»  it 
was,  she  made  my  bit  of  help  superfluous." 

"I  should  find  it  hard  to  credit  that,"  he  said, 
twisting  his  fingers  nervously. 
"You  won't  when  I  tcU  you." 
In  the  quiet,  unaccentuated  manner  in  which  she 
had  given  her  own  share  in  the  action  she  gave 
Diane's.  Shading  her  eyes  with  the  hand-screen, 
she  was  able  to  watch  his  play  of  feature  and  note 
how  the  first  forced  smile  of  bravado  faded  into  an 
expression  of  crestfallen  gravity. 

"You  see,"  she  concluded,  "they  were  frantic 
at  Dorothea's  failure  to  appear.  When  you  ar- 
rived they  naturally  thought  it  was  she;  and  if 
Derek  Pruyn  hadn't  lost  his  head  when  he  s,aw 
you,  he  wouldn't  have  tried  to  thrust  her  out  of 
sight  as  though  she  were  caught  in  a  crime.  It 
was  so  like  a  man  to  do  it;  a  woman  would  have 
had  a  dozen  ways  of  disarming  your  suspicion,  while 
he  did  the  very  thing  to  arouse  it.  I  don't  blame 
you  for  thinking  what  you  did— not  in  the  least. 
I  don't  even  blame  you  for  telling  it,  since  it  would 
•eem  to  bear  out— what  you  said  before.  I  should 
only  blame  you — " 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle  ?  You  would  only  blame 
me— r 

"I  should  only  blame  you  if—now  that  you  know 
the  truth— you  didn't  correct  the  impression  you 
have  given." 

3*3 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

"Are  you  going  to  begin  on  that  again  ?"  he  asked, 
in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

"I'm  not  beginning  again,  because  I've  never 
ceased.  If  I  say  anything  new  on  the  subject,  it 
^  this — ^that  it's  time  the  final  word  was  spoken." 

"I  agree  with  you  there;  it  is  time  for  that 
trord;  but  you  must  speak  it." 

There  was  a  ring  of  energy  in  his  voice  which 
caused  her  to  turn  from  her  contemplation  of  the 
<we  and  look  at  him.  When  she  did  he  had  taken 
art  a  new  air  of  resolution. 

"I  think  it's  time  we  came  to  a  definite  under- 
standing," he  went  on,  "and  that  you  should  see 
how  the  matter  looks  from  my  point  of  view. 
You  speak  of  doing  right.  Mademoiselle,  as  if 
it  were  an  easy  thing.  You  don't  realize  that,  for 
me,  it  would  have  to  be  the  last  act  but  one  m 
life." 

In  spite  of  the  shock,  she  ignored  his  implied 
confession,  going  on  to  sprak  in  the  tone  of  ordinary 
conversation. 

"The  last  act  but  one  ?    I  don't  understand  you." 

"Really?  I'm  surpilsed  at  that.  You're  so 
good  a  sportsman  that  I  should  think  you'd  see 
that  if  I  do  what  you  ask  there  will  be  only  one 
more  thing  left  for  me." 

For  a  few  minutes  she  looked  at  him  silently, 
with  fixed  gaze,  taking  in  the  full  measure  of  hit 
meaning. 

3*4 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"That's  folly,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Is  it?  Not  for  me.  It  might  be  for  some 
people,  but— not  for  me.  You  must  remember 
who  I  am.  I'm  a  Frenchman.  I'm  an  aristocrat. 
I'm  a  Bienville.  I'm  a  member  of  a  class,  of  a 
clan,  that  lives  and  breathes  on— honor.  I  can 
do  without  almost  everything  in  the  world  but 
that.  I  can  do  without  money,  I  can  do  without 
morals,  I  can  do  without  most  kinds  of  common 
honesty,  I  can  do  without  nearly  all  the  Christian 
virtues,  and  still  keep  my  place  among  my  friends; 
but  I  can't  do  without  that  particular  shade  of 
conduct  which  they  and  I  undersund  by  the  word 
honor." 

"But  aren't  you  doing  without  it  as  it  is  f" 

"No;  because  there  again  our  code  is  special 
to  ourselves.  With  us  the  crime  is  lot  ir.  sus- 
pkion  or  supposition;  it  isn't  even  in  detection. 
It's  in  admission.  It's  in  confession.  All  sorts  of 
things  may  be  thought  of  you,  and  said  of  you,  and 
even  known  of  you,  and  you  can  bluff  them  out; 
but  when  you  have  acknowledged  them— you're 
doomed." 

"Even  so,  isn't  it  better  to  acknowledge  them — 
and  he  doomed  ?" 

"That's  the  question.     That's  what  I  have  to 

decide.     That's  where  you  must  help  me  decide. 

If  you  had  allowed  me,  I  should  have  made  up 

my  own  mind,  on  my  own  responsibility;  but  you 

32s 


THE      INNER      SHRJNE 


won't  let  me.  Now  that  the  incident  at  Lake- 
field  is  no  good  as  evidence,  I  see  that  you  will 
never  rest  until  we  come  to  the  plainest  of  plain 
speech.  The  problem  I've  had  to  solve  is  this: 
Is  Diane  Eveleth  to  be  happy,  or  am  I  ?  Is  she 
to  rise  while  I  go  under,  or  shall  I  keep  her 
down  and  stay  on  the  surface  ?  Since  it's  her  life 
or  mine,  which  is  it  to  be?  The  alternative  may 
be  a  brutal  one,  but  there  it  is." 

"  And  you've  decided  in  your  own  favor  ?" 
"So  far.     I've  been  actuated  by  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation." 

"And  are  you  going  to  persist  in  it  ?" 
"  That's  for  you  to  tell  me.     But  I  should  like  to 
remind  you  first  of  this,  that  if  I  don't—  I  go." 
"And  what  if — if  I  went  with  you  ?" 
"  You  couldn't.    The  journey  would  be  too  long." 
"  But  you  needn't  go  so  far  if  I'm  there." 
"  I  couldn't  take  you  with  me.    You  must  under- 
stand that.     1  once  knew  an  American  girl  who 
married  a  man  who  cheated  at  cards,  and  buried 
herself  alive  with  him.     I  wouldn't  let  a  woman  do 
that  for  me." 
"  But  if  she  wanted  to  r" 

"In  that  case  she  ought  to  be  protected  from 
herself.  There's  no  use  in  ruining  two  lives  where 
one  will  do." 

"There's  such  a  thing  as  losing  your  life  to 
find  it." 

J26 


THE      INNER 


SHRINE 


"If  so,  it's  something  for  me  to  do — alone." 
"Isn't  it  a  kind  of  moral  cowardice  to  say  that?" 
"I  don't  think  so.     To  me  it  seems  only  looking 
•Jungs  squarely  in  the  face.     I'm  not  the  sort  of 
man  for  whom  there's  any  possibility  of  begiiming 
hfe  anew.    A  man  like  me  can't  live  things  down. 
When  once,  by  his  own  confession,  he  has  lost  his 
honor,  there's  no  rehabilitation  that  can  make  him 
a  man  again.     Like  Cain,  he  has  got  to  go  out 
from  the  presence  of  the  Lord;  or.ly,  unlike  Cain, 
there's  no  land  of  Nod  waiting  to  receive  him. 
There's  no  place  for  him  anywhere  on  earth.     A 
few  years  ago,  when  I  was  motoring  in  the  Black 
Forest  with  the  d'Aubignys,  we  dropped  into  a  lit- 
tle hole  of  an  inn  as  nearly  out  of  the  world  as  any- 
thmg  could  be.    As  we  approached  the  door  a  man 
got  up  from  a  bench  and  shambled  away.     When 
he  had  got  to  what  he  considered  a  safe  distance  he 
turned  to  look  at  us.     I  knew  him.     It  was  Jacques 
de  la  Tour  de  Lorme." 
"Really?" 

"The  poor  wretch  had  hidden  himself  in  that 
God -forsaken  spot,  where  he  supposed  no  one 
would  be  able  to  track  him  down;  but  we  had  done 
It.  I've  never  forgotten  his  weaty  gait  or  the  woe- 
begone look  in  his  eyes.  It  is  what  would  come  to 
me  if  I  waited  for  it." 

"I  don't  see  why.    There's  no  similarity  be- 
tween the  cases.    Jacques  de  la  Tour  de  Lonnc 
2V 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

did  wrong  he  never  could  put  right.    You'd  be 
doing  the  very  thing  he  found  impossible." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  wouldn't  make  any  difference  in  my  world. 
Nobody  there  would  think  of  the  right  or  th« 
wrong;  they'd  only  consider  what  I'd  ovimed  to. 
It's  the  confession  that  would  ruin  me." 

"Surely  you  exaggerate.  You  could  do  it  qui- 
etly. No  one  need  know — outside  Derek  Pruyn 
and  two  or  three  more  of  us." 

"I  don't  do  things  in  that  way,"  he  said,  with 
an  odd  return  of  his  old-time  pride.  "  If  I  put  the 
woman  right,  it  shall  be  in  the  eyes  of  t^^e  world. 
I  don't  ask  to  have  things  made  easy  for  me.  If 
I  do  it  at  all,  I  shall  do  it  thoroughly.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  it  or  of  anything  it  entails.  It's  a  curious 
thing  that  a  man  of  my  make-up  is  afraiJ  of  being 
ridiculed  or  being  given  the  cold  shoulder,  but  he's 
not  afraid  to  die." 

Though  hfc  was  looking  straight  at  her,  he  was 
too  deeply  engrossed  in  his  own  thoughts  to  see 
how  proudly  her  head  went  up,  or  to  note  the 
flash  of  splendid  light  in  which  her  glance  en' 
veloped  him. 

'I  was  all  ready  to  die,"  he  pursued,  in  the 
same  meditative  tone,  "that  morning  in  the  Pre 
Catalan.  George  Eveleth  could  have  had  my  life 
for  the  asking.  I'd  never  known  him  to  miss  his 
mark,  and  he  wouldn't  have  missed  me — if  he 
328 


^^ 


THE      I  N  N  E  R      S  H  R  I  N  E 

hadn't  had  another  destination  for  his  bullet.  I've 
r^etted  It  more  than  once.  I've  had  pretty  nearly 
all  _that  hfe  could  give  me-and  I've  made  a  mes. 

I' You  haven't  had— love,"  she  ventured. 
Love?"  he  echoed,  with  a  short  laugh.     "I've 
had  every  kind  of  love  but  one;  and  that  I'm  not 
worthy  of. 

"We  gpt  a  good  many  things  we're  not  worthy 
0*;^  but  they  help  us  just  the  same." 

"This  wouldn't  help  me,"  he  returned,  speakine 
very  slowly.     "I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with 
It.     It  would  be  as  useless  to  me  in  my  new  condi- 
tons  as  a  chaplet  of  pearls  to  a  slave  in  the  galleys 
So,  what  would  you  do  ?" 
"I'd  do  right  at  any  cost." 
She  scarcely  knew  that  the  words  were  spoken, 
■o  intent  was  her  thought  on  the  strange  mixture  of 
elements  in  his  personality.     It  was  not  until  she 
had  waited  in  vain  for  a  response  that  she  found  the 
echo  of  her  speech  still  in  her  mental  hearing  and 
recognized  its  import.     Her  first  impulse  was  to 
ciy  out  and  take  it  back;   but  she  restrained  her 
self  and  waited.     It  was  an  instant  in  which  the 
love  of  daring,  that  was  so  instinctive  in  her  nature 
blew,  as  it  were,  a  trumpet-challenge  to  the  same 
passion  in  his  own,  while  they  sat  staring  at  each 
other,  wide-eyed  and  speechless,  in  the  dancine 
nrelight.  * 

.720 


XXIV 


ON  the  following  day  the  Marquis  de  Bienville 
found  the  execution  of  any  intentions  he  might 
have  had  toward  Derelc  Pruyn  postponed  by  the 
circumstance  that  Miss  Regina  van  Tromp  was 
dead.  The  helpless,  inarticulate  life,  which  for 
three  years  had  served  as  a  bond  to  hold  more 
active  existences  together,  had  failed  suddenly, 
leaving  in  the  little  group  a  curious  impression  of 
collapse.  It  became  perceptible  that  the  hushed 
sick-room,  where  Miss  Lucilla  and  Mrs.  Eveleth 
were  the  cnly  ministrants,  had  in  reality  been  a 
centre  for  those  who  never  entered  it.  Now  that 
the  living  presence  was  withdrawn,  there  came  the 
consciousness  of  dispersing  interests,  inseparable 
from  the  passing  away  of  the  long  established,  which 
gives  the  spirit  pause. 

The  days  before  the  funeral  became  a  period  of 
suspended  i  ion,  in  which  Life  refrained  from 
too  marked  a  manifestation  of  its  energies,  out  of 
reverence  for  Death.  Even  when  the  grave  was 
filled  in,  and  the  will  read,  and  the  family  face  to 
face  with  its  new  conditions,  there  was  a  respectful 
330 


THE  I  N  N  E  R  SHRINE 
abienw  of  huny  in  beginning  the  work  of  recon- 
wniction.  The  lull  lasted,  in  fact,  till  James  van 
Iromp  amved  from  Paris;  and  it  was  broken  then 
only  by  the  banker's  desire  "to  get  things  settled" 
with  all  possible  speed,  so  that  he  might  return  to 
the  Rue  Auber. 

The  first  sign  of  real  disintegration  came  from 
Mrs.  Eveleth.     She  had  waited  for  the  arrival  of 
die  man  whom  she  looked  upon  now  as  her  con- 
fidential adviser,  to  make  the  announcement  that, 
smce  Miss  LuciUa  would  no  longer  need  her,  she 
meant  to  have  a  home  of  her  own.    The  economies 
she  had  been  able  to  practise  during  the  last  two 
years,   together   with    a    legacy   from    Miss   van 
iromp,  would,  when  added  to  "her  own  income," 
provide  her  with  modest  comfort  for  the  rest  of  her 
days.^    There  was  something   triumphant  in   the 
way  in  which  she  proclaimed  her  independence  of 
the  daughter-in-law  who  had  been  the  author  of  so 
many  of  her  woes.    It  was  the  old  banker  himself 
who  brought  this  intelligence  to  Diane. 

During  the  fortnight  he  had  been  in  New  York 
he  had  formed  an  almost  daily  habit  of  dropping  in 
on  her.  She  was  the  more  surprised  at  his  doing 
sc  from  the  fact  that  her  detachment  from  the  rett 
of  tne  circie  of  which  she  had  formed  a  part  was 
now  complete.  She  had  gone  to  see  Miss  LucilU 
vnth  words  of  sympathy,  but  her  reception  was  such 
that  she  came  away  with  cheeks  flaming.  Mist 
331 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

Lucilla  had  said  nothing;  she  had  only  wept;  but 
she  had  wept  in  a  way  to  show  that  Diane  her- 
self, more  than  the  departed  Miss  Regina,  was  the 
motive  of  her  grief.  After  that  Diane  had  re- 
mained shut  up  in  her  linen-room,  finding  in  its 
occupied  seclusion  something  of  the  peace  which 
the  nun  seeks  in  the  cloister. 

There  was  no  one  but  the  old  man  to  push  his 
way  into  her  sanctuary,  and  for  his  visits  she  was 
grateful.  They  not  only  relieved  the  tedium  of  her 
days,  but  they  brought  her  news  from  that  small 
world  into  which  her  most  vital  interests  had  become 
absorbed. 

"So  the  old  lady  is  set  up  for  life  on  your  money," 
he  observed,  as  he  watched  Diane  hold  a  white 
table-cloth  up  to  the  light  and  search  it  for  im- 
perfections. 

"It  isn't  my  money  now;  and  even  if  it  were  I'd 
rather  she  had  the  use  of  it.  She  would  have  had 
much  more  than  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me." 

"She  might;  and  then  again  she  mightn't  Who 
told  you  what  would  have  happened — if  every- 
thing had  been  different  from  what  it  is  ?  There 
are  people  who  think  they  would  have  had  plenty 
of  money  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me;  but  that  doesn't 
prove  they're  right." 

"In  any  case  I'm  glad  she  has  it." 

"That's    because    you're    a    very   foolish    little 
woman,  as  I  told  you  when  you  came  to  me  three 
33* 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

years  ago.     I  said  then  that  you'd  be  sony  for  it 
•ome  day — " 
"But  I'm  not." 

"Tutl    tuti    Don't  tell  me!    Can't  I  see  with 
my  own  eyes?    No  woman  could  lose  her  good 
looks  as  you've  done  and  not  know  she's  made  a 
mistake.     How  old  are  you  now?" 
"I'm  twenty-seven." 
"Dear  me!  dear  me  I    You  look  forty." 
"I  feel  eighty." 

"Yes;  I  dare  say  you  do.  Any  one  who's  got 
into  so  many  scrapes  as  you  have  must  feel  the 
burden  of  time.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  young 
woman  make  such  poor  use  of  her  opportunities. 
Why  didn't  you  marry  Derek  Pruyn  ?" 

Diane  kept  herself  quite  still,  her  needle  arrested 
half-way  through  its  stitch.  She  took  time  to  re- 
flect diat  it  was  useless  to  feel  annoyed  at  anything 
he  might  say,  and  when  she  formed  her  answer 
it  was  in  the  spirit  of  meeting  him  in  his  own 
vein. 

"What  makes  you  think  I  ever  had  the  chance  ?" 

"  Because  I  gave  it  to  you  myself." 

"You,  Mr.  van  Tromp  ?" 

"Yes;  me.  I  did  all  that  wire-pulling  when  you 
first  came  to  New  York;  and  I  did  it  just  so  that 
you  might  catch  him." 

"Oh?" 

"I  did,"  he  declared,  proudly,  "And  if  you  had 
333 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

been  the  woman  I  took  you  for,  you  could  have 
had  him." 

"But  suppose  I — didn't  want  him?" 

"Oh,  don't  tell  me  that,"  he  said,  pityingly. 
"Why  shouldn't  you  want  him  f— just  as  much  as 
he'd  want  you  ?" 

"Well,  I'll  put  it  that  way  if  you  like.  Suppose 
he  didn't  want  me  ?" 

"Then  the  more  fool  he.  I  picked  you  out  for 
him  on  purpose.',' 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"Certainly.  I  saw  he  was  getting  on  in  life,  and, 
as  he'd  been  a  good  many  years  a  widower,  I  imag- 
ined he'd  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  any  one 
to  have  him.  If  he's  good-looking,  he's  not  what 
you'd  call  very  bright;  and  he's  got  a  temper  like 
— ^ell,  I  won't  say  what.  I'd  pity  the  woman  who 
got  him,  that's  all;  and  so — " 

"And  so  you  thought  you'd  pity  me." 

"I  did  pity  you  as  it  was.  It  seemed  to  me  you 
couldn't  be  worse  off,  not  even  if  you  married  Derek 
Pruyn." 

"It  was  certainly  good  of  you  to  give  me  the  of< 
portunity;  and  if  I  had  only  known — " 

"You  would  have  let  it  slip  through  your  fingers 
just  the  same.  You're  one  of  the  young  women 
who  will  always  stand  in  their  own  light.  I  date 
say,  now,  that  if  I  told  you  I  was  willing  to  marry 
jrou  myself,  you  wouldn't  profit  by  the  occasion" 
J34 


THE     INNER 


SHRINE 


"I  should  never  want  to  profit  by  your  loss,  Mr. 
van  Tromp." 

"But  suppose  I  could  afford— to  lose?" 

Unable  to  answer  him  there,  she  held  her  peace, 
though  it  was  a  relief  that,  before  he  had  time  to 
speak  again,  a  page-boy  knocked  at  the  door  and 
entered  with  a  card.  Diane  took  it  hastily  and 
read  the  name. 

'Tell  the  gentleman  I  can't  see  him,"  she  said, 
with  a  visible  effort  to  speak  steadily. 

"Wait!"  tb-  banker  ordered,  as  the  boy  was 
about  to  turn.  "Who  is  it?"  Without  ceremony 
he  drew  the  card  from  Diane's  hand  and  looked  at 
It,  "Heul"  he  cried.  "It's  Bienville,  is  it?  Of 
rourse  you'll  see  him;  of  course  you  will;  of  course! 
Here,  boy,  I'll  go  with  you." 

Returning  to  Gramercy  Park  after  this  interview, 
the  banker  pottered  about  his  apartment  until,  on 
hearing  the  door -bell  ring,  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  recognized  Derek  Pmyn's  chauffeur. 
On  the  stairs,  as  he  vrent  down,  he  heard  Miss 
Lucilla's  voice  in  the  hall. 

"Oh,  come  in,  Derek.  Marion  isn't  here  yet 
but  she  won't  be  long.  I  asked  you  to  come  punc- 
tuaUy,  because  I  gathered  from  her  note  that  she 
wanted  to  see  you  veiy  particularly,  and  without 
Mrs.  Bayford's  knowledge.  She  has  evidently 
something  on  her  mind  that  she  wants  to  tell  you." 
335 


■ 


THE     INNER      SHRINF 

"Hello,  dearsl"  the  old  man  interrupted  sud- 
denly, as,  leaping  heavily  on  the  baluster,  he  de- 
scended the  stairs.  "I've  got  good  news  for  you." 
"Good  news,  Uncle  James?"  Miss  Lucilla  said, 
reproachfully.  With  her  long,  grave  face,  and  in 
her  heavy  crape,  she  looked  as  though  she  found 
good  news  decidedly  out  of  place. 

"The  very  best,"  the  banker  declared,  reaching 
the  hall  and  taking  his  nephew  and  niece  each  by 
an  arm.  "Come  into  the  library  and  I'll  tell  you. 
There!"  he  went' on,  pushing  Miss  Lucilla  into  an 
arm-chair.  "Sit  down,  Derek,  and  make  yourself 
comfortable.  Now,  listen,  both  of  you.  Perhaps 
you're  going  to  have  a  new  aunt." 

"Oh,  Uncle  James!"  Miss  Lucilla  cried,  in  the 
voice  of  a  person  about  to  faint. 

"You're  going  to  be  married!"  Derek  roared, 
with  the  fury  of  a  father  addressing  a  wayward 
ion. 

"The  young  woman,"  the  banker  went  on  to  ex- 
plain, "is  of  French  extraction,  but  Irish  on  the 
mother's  side." 

Derek  grasped  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  half 
rose,  making  an  inarticulate  sound. 

"*Sh!  'Sh!"  the  old  man  went  on,  lifting  a 
warning  hand.  "She'd  had  reverses  of  fortune; 
but  that  wasn't  the  reason  why  she  came  to  me. 
Though  her  husband  had  just  died,  leaving  noth- 
ing, Ae  had  her  own  dot,  on  tlie  income  of  which 
336 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

she  iTOuld  have  lived.  But  that  didn't  suit  her. 
Her  husband  had  left  a  mother,  who  had  neither 
dot  nor  anything  else  in  the  world.  At  the  age  of 
sixty  the  old  woman  was  a  pauper.  My  little  ladj 
came  to  see  me  in  order  to  uansfer  all  her  own 
money  secretly  to  her  mother-in-law,  and  face  th* 
world  herself  with  empty  hands." 

"  My  God !"  Derek  breathed,  just  audibly.  Mis« 
Lucilla  sat  upright  and  tense,  hot  tears  starting  » 
her  eyes. 

"Plucky,  wasn't  it?"  the  uncle  went  on,  com- 
placently. "I  didn't  approve  of  it  at  first,  but  I 
fet  her  do  it  in  the  end,  knowing  that  some  good 
fellow  would  make  it  up  to  her." 

"Don't  joke,  uncle,"  Derek  cried,  nervously. 
"It's  too  serious  for  that." 

"I'm  not  joking.  It's  what  I  did  think.  And 
if  the  world  wasn't  full  of  idiots  who  couldn't  tell 
diamonds  from  glass,  a  little  woman  like  that  would 
have  been  snapped  up  long  ago." 
Derek  sprang  up  and  strode  across  the  room. 
"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  demanded,  turn- 
ing  abruptly,  "that  she  made  over  all  her  money 
to  Mrs.  Eveleth— a  woman  who  has  deserted  her, 
like  the  rest  of  us  ?" 

"That's  what  she  did;  but  there's  this  to  be  said 

for  the  old  lady,  that  she  doesn't  know  it.     She 

thinks  it's  the  wreck  of  her  own  fonune,  and  Diane 

wouldn't  let  me  tell  her  the  truth.     Since  you  seem 

337 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

to  be  mterested  in  the  little  story,"  he  added;  wMi 
saicasm,  "you  may  hear  all  about  it" 

With  tolerable  accuracy  he  gave  the  details  of 
his  first  interview  with  Diane,  three  years  previous. 
Long  before  he  finished,  Lucilla  was  weeping 
silently,  while  Derek  stood  like  a  man  turned  to 
stone.  Even  the  banker's  own  face  took  on  an 
expression  of  whimsical  gravity  as  he  said  in  con- 
dusion: 

"And  so  I've  decided  to  give  her  a  home— that 
is,"  he  added,  significantly,  "if  no  one  else  will." 

"Do  you  mean  that  for  me  ?"  Derek  asked,  in  a 
tone  too  low  for  Lucilla  to  hear  it. 

"Oh  no— not  particularly.    I  mean  it  for— any 

one." 

"Because,"  Derek  went  on,  "as  for  me— I  m  not 
worthy  to  have  her  under  my  root." 

The  banker  made  no  comment,  sitting  in  a 
hunched  attitude  and  humming  to  himself  in  a 
cracked  voice  while  Derek  stared  down  at  him.  ^ 

They  were  still  in  this  position  when  Marion 
Grimston  was  shown  in. 


XXV 

GREETINGS  having  been  exchanged,  it  was 
Miss  Lucilla's  policy  to  draw  her  uncle  away 
to  some  other  room,  leaving  Marion  free  to  have 
her  conference  with  Pruyn;  but  the  old  man  settled 
himself  in  his  chair  again,  with  no  intention  of 
quitting  the  field.  Derek,  too,  entered  on  the  task 
of  dislodging  him,  but  without  success.  Nursing 
his  knee,  and  peering  at  Marion  with  bulgy,  short- 
sighted eyes,  the  banker  kept  her  answering  ques- 
tions as  to  Mrs.  Bayford's  health,  blind  to  her  ob- 
vious nervousness  and  distress. 

The  cousins  exchanged  baflled,  impatient  glances, 
while  Lucilla  managed  to  say  in  an  undertone: 
"Take  Marion  to  the  drawing-room.  We'll  never 
get  him  to  go." 

Derek  was  about  to  comply  with  this  suggestion, 
when  the  footman  threw  open  the  library  door  again. 
For  a  moment  no  one  appeared,  though  a  sound  of 
smothered  voices  from  the  hall  caused  the  four  within 
the  room  to  sit  in  strangely  aroused  expectancy. 

"No,  no;   I  can't  go  in,"  came  a  woman's  whis- 
pered protest.     "You  can  do  it  without  me." 
339 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"You  mustP'  was  the  man's  response;  and  a 
second  later  Bienville  was  on  the  threshold,  stand- 
ing aside  as  Diane  Eveleth  entered. 

Derek  sprang  to  his  feet,  but,  as  if  petrified  by 
a  sense  of  his  own  impotence,  stood  still.  Miss 
Lucilla,  with  the  instincts  of  the  hostess  awake, 
even  in  these  strange  conditions,  went  forwanj, 
with  her  hand  half  outstretched  and  the  words 
"Monsieur  de  Bienville"  on  her  lips.  The  old 
banker  rose,  and,  taking  Diane's  hand,  drew  it 
within  his  arm  in  a  protecting  way  for  which  she 
was  grateful,  while  she  suiFered  him  to  lead  her  some 
few  steps  apart.  Marion  Grimston  alone,  seated 
in  a  distant  comer,  did  not  move.  With  her  arm 
resting  on  a  small  table,  die  watched  the  rapidly 
enacted  scene  with  the  detachment  of  a  spectator 
looking  at  a  play.  She  had  thrown  back  her  black 
veil  over  her  hat,  and  against  the  dark  background 
her  face  had  the  grave,  marble  whiteness  of  classic 
features  in  stone. 

During  the  minute  of  interrogatory  silence  that 
ensued,  Bienville,  with  quick  reversion  to  the  habits 
of  the  drawing-room,  was  able  to  re-establish  his 
«elf-control.  With  his  hat,  his  gloves,  and  his 
stick,  he  had  that  air  of  the  casual  visitor  which 
helped  to  give  him  back  the  sensation  of  having 
his  feet  on  accustomed  ground. 

"I  must  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  van  Tromp,  for 
disturbing  you,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  Misa 
340 


ULA.  INNER      S  TT  P   ri^^ 

Lucilla.  whc.  stood  in  the  foreground.  "I  shouldn't 
have  done  so  ,f  I  hadn't  something  of  great  im- 
portance to  say."  ^  ^  "^ 
His  voice  was  so  calm  that  Miss  Lucilb  could  not 
do  otherwse  than  reply  in  the  same  vein  of  com 
monplace  formality. 

t^JZ-"'"  •""■"•"    ■ -J- going  » 

"Oh,  if  you  think  so — I" 

Having  fulfilled  her  necessa^^  duties  as  mistres. 
of  the  house  she  felt  at  liberty  to  fall  back,  leaving 
Bienville  isolated  in  the  doorway  ^ 

"Mr.  Pruyn,"  he  said,  after  further  brief  hesita- 
Uo„,  I  come  to  make  a  confession  which  can  scarcely 
be  a  confession  to  any  one  in  this  room-but  you  '' 

Derek  grew  white  to  the  lips,  but  remained  n^ 
tionless,  while  Bienville  went  on. 

"On  the  way  up  from  South  America  last  spring 
I  said  certain  things  about  a  certain  lady  vvhich 

7Z%T  T  r'  ".'■''  "'^'"  «"^  -^  °f  thought 
less  folly;  but  I  maintained  them  afterward  with 
deliberate  mtent.  When  I  pretended  to  take  them 
back,  I  did  so  in  a  way  which,  as  I  knew,  must  con- 
vince  you  further." 

3*1 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"It  did." 

As  he  brought  out  the  two  words,  Derek  tried 
)o  look  at  Diane,  but  she  was  clinging  to  the  arm 
of  old  James  van  Tromp,  while  her  frightened  eyes 
were  riveted  on  Bienville. 

"  I'm  telling  you  the  truth  to-day,"  Bienville  con- 
tinued, "partly  because  circumstances  have  forced 
my  hand,  partly  because  some  one  whom  I  great- 
ly respect  desires  it,  and  partly  because  something 
within  myself— Ii  might  almost  call  it  the  manhood 
I've  been  fighting  against — has  made  it  imperative. 
I've  come  to  the  point  where  my  punishment  is 
greater  than  I  can  bear.  I'm  not  so  lost  to  honor 
as  not  to  know  that  life  is  no  longer  worth  the 
living  when  honor  is  lost  to  me." 

He  spoke  without  a  tremor,  leaning  easily  on  the 
cane  he  held  against  his  hip. 

"I  must  do  myself  the  justice  to  say  that  the 
wrong  of  which  I  was  guilty  had  its  origin,  at  the 
first,  in  a  sort  of  inadvertence.  I  had  no  intention 
of  doing  any  one  irreparable  '.larm.  I  was  taking 
part  in  a  game,  but  I  meant  to  play  it  fairly.  The 
lady  of  whom  I  speak  would  bear  me  out  when  I 
say  that  the  people  among  whom  she  and  I  were 
bom — in  France — in  Paris — engage  in  this  game 
as  a  sort  of  sport,  and  we  call  it — love.  It  isn't 
love  in  any  of  the  senses  in  which  you  understand 
it  here.  We  give  it  a  meaning  of  our  own.  It's 
«  game  that  requires  the  combination  of  many 
34a 


THE      INNER      S  H  Ti   T  M  ^ 

kind,  of  skill  and.  if  it  doesn't  call  for  a  conspicu. 
ous  display  of  vinues.  it  lays  all  the  greater  em- 
pnasis  on  Its  own  few,  stringent  rules.  Like  all 
other  sports,  it  demands  a  certain  kind  of  integrity, 
•n  which  the  moralist  could  easily  pick  holesf  b« 
which  nevertheless  constitutes  its  saving  grace 
Well,  u,  this  game  of  love  I-cheated.  I  said,  one 
day,  that  I  had  won.  when  I  hadn't  won.  I  s-.id 
It  to  people  who  welcomed  my  victor)-,  not  through 
Jnendship  for  me,  but  from  envy  of— her  " 

The  perspiration  began  to  stand  in  beads  upoa 
Bienville's  forehead,  but  he  held  himself  erect  and 
went  on  with  the  same  outward  tranquillity  Hi. 
eyes  were  fixed  on  Pruyn's,  and  Pruyn's  on  his 
m  a  ^w  from  which  even  the  nearest  objects  were 
excluded.  ^ 

"In  the  little  group  in  which  we  lived  her  posi- 
tion was  peculiar.     She  was  both  within  our  gates 
and  without  them.    While  she  was  one  of  us  by 
birth,  she  was  a  stranger  by  education  and  by  mar- 
nage.     She  was  admitted  with  a  welcome,  and  at 
the  same  time  with  a  question.     She  was  a  mark 
for  enmity  from  the  very  first.    There  was  some- 
^ing  about  her  that  challenged  our  institutions. 
In  among  our  worn-out  passions  and  moribund 
.deals  she  brought  a  freshness  we  resented.     She 
made  our  prejudices  seem  absurd  from  contrast 
with  her  own  sanity,  and  showed  our  moral  stand- 
ards to  be  rotten  by  the  light  of  the  something  clew 
34? 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

and  virginal  in  her  character.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
this  effect  was  brought  about,  but  there  were  few 
of  us  who  weren't  aware  of  it,  as  there  were  few  of 
us  who  didn't  hate  it.  There  was  but  one  impulse 
among  us — to  catch  her  in  a  fault,  to  make  her 
no  better  than  ourselves.  The  daring  of  her  in- 
nocence afforded  us  many  opportunities;  and  we 
made  use  of  them.  One  man  after  another  con- 
fessed himself  defeated.  Then  came  my  turn.  I 
wasn't  merely  defeated;  I  was  put  to  utter  rout, 
with  ridicule  and  scorn.  That  was  too  much  for 
nte.     I  couldn't  stand  it;   and — and — I  lied." 

"Oh,  Bienville,  that  will  do  I"  Diane  cried  out, 
in  a  pleading  wail.    "Don't  say  any  morel" 

"I'm  not  sure  that  there's  any  more  I  need  to 
say.  The  rest  can  be  easily  understood.  Every 
one  knows  how  a  man  who  lies  once  is  obliged  to 
lie  again,  and  again,  and  yet  again,  unless  he  frees 
himself  as  I  do.  When  I  began  I  thought  I  had  it 
in  me  to  go  on  heroically — but  I  hadn't.  I  can't 
keep  it  up.  I'm  not  one  of  the  master  villains, 
who  command  respect  from  force  of  prowess.  I'm 
a  weakling  in  evil,  as  in  good,  fit  neither  for  God 
nor  for  the  devil.  But  that's  my  affair.  I  needn't 
trouble  any  one  here  with  what  only  concerns  my- 
self. It's  too  late  for  me  to  make  everything  right 
now;  but  I'll  do  what  I  can  before — before — I 
mean,"  he  stammered  on,  "I'll  write.  I'll  write 
to  the  people — there  were  only  a  few  of  them — lo 
344 


whom  I  actually  used  the  words  I  did.  I'll  ast 
Aem  to  correct  the  .mpression  I  have  give"  { 
know  they'll  do  it,  when  they  know-"     ^  ' 

i^reK  rruyn,    you  shall  not  go  " 
All  the  suffering  of  months  shot  out  in  the  red 

£^RSa-=^— ^ 

poilS'aB^CJt^^^^C^o^f^'^^-''-^''"^-'' 

There  was  a  second  of  breathless  stillness    Then 

slowly  the  dmched  lingers  began  to  rdaxlJ;^ 

I^llT  f   u- "^  **^  "^*'  '"^n  'here  passed  a 
look  of  th,ngs  unspeakable,  till,  with  bem lead 
and  droop,ng  figure.  Derek  wheeled  away. 
1 II  say  good-by— now."  ^ 

345 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

_  Bienville's  voice  was  husky,  but  he  bowed  with 
dignity  to  each  member  of  the  company  in  nun 
and  to  Marion  Grimston  last. 

"Raoul!" 

The  name  arrested  him  as  he  was  about  to  go. 
rie  looiced  at  her  inquiringly. 

"Raoul,"  she  said  again,  without  rising  from  her 
place,  "I  promised  that  if  you  ever  did  what  you've 
done  to-day  I  would  be  your  wife." 

"You  did,"  he  answered,  "but  I've  already  given 
you  to  understand  that  I  claim  no  such  reward." 

"It  isn't  you  who  would  be  claiming  the  reward; 
it'»  I.    I've  suffered  much.    I've  earned  it." 

"The  very  fact  that  you've  suffered  much  would 
be  my  motive  in  not  allowing  you  to  suffer  more." 

"Raoul,  no  man  knows  the  sources  of  a  woman's 
joy  and  pain.  How  can  you  tell  from  what  to 
save  me  V 

"There's  one  thing  from  which  I  must  save  you: 
from  uniting  your  destiny  with  that  of  a  man  who 
has  no  future — ^from  pouring  the  riches  of  your 
heart  into  a  bottomless  pit,  where  they  could  do 
no  one  any  good.  I  thank  you.  Mademoiselle,  with 
all  my  soul.  I've  asked  you  many  times  for  your 
love;  and  of  the  hard  things  I've  had  to  do  to-day, 
the  hardest  is  to  give  it  back  to  you,  now,  when  at 
last  you  offer  it.  Don't  add  to  my  bitterness  by 
urging  it  on  me." 

"  But,  Raoul,"  she  cried,  raising  herself  up,  "yon 
346 


•you 


THE     INNER      S  H  P  T  kt  ^ 

d«j',  understand.    We  regard  these  thing,  differ- 
«itly  here   from   the  way  in  which  yof  do  in 

your  honor  you've  lost  ail~,n  French  ey..;  buf 
w.  don't  feel  like  that.  W.  never  Ick^or  any 
one  as  beyond  redemption  We  ,UoM  .o.  ider 
that  a  man  who  has  been  fcravt  <•,  ., ,;,  .^  j- 
What  you've  done  to^ay  has  g  .n.  i,.  ,,,  establish 
his  inoral  regeneration.  We  o.ir,  h,,,or  him,  in 
cenam  ways-in  certain  ways  K.o,-.-  ,J  rost  more 
than  If  he  had  never  done  v,or,;  at  aO.  None 
of  us  would  condemn  him,  or  cast  a  stone  at  him 
-should  we,  Lucilla  ?-should  we,  Mr.  Pruyn?" 

No,  no,"  Miss  Lucilla  sobbed.     "We'd  pitv 
nim;  we  d  take  him  to  ou    hearts  " 

"She's  right    Bienville,"  Derek  muttered,  nod- 
djng  toward    Manon.    "Better  do  just  as   she 

"I'm  a  Frenchman.    I'm  a  Bienville.    I  can't 
accept  mercy."  *  «^i  i 

,^1?"'.^^  ""  bestow  it."  the  girl  cried,  passion- 
ately  Any  one  would  tell  you  that,  after  all  that 
has  happened-after  this-l  should  be  happier  in 
shanng  your  hfe  than  in  being  shut  out  of  it  1 
appea  to  you  Miss  Lucilla!  I  appeal  to  you. 
Dianel-wouldn't  any  woman  be  proud  to  be  the 
wife  of  Raoul  de  Bienville  after  what  he  has  done 
this  afternoon,  no  matter  how  the  world  turned 
against  him  ?" 

W7 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

"These  ladies,  in  the  goodness  of  their  hearts, 
might  say  anything  they  chose;  but  nothing  would 
alter  their  conviction  diat  for  you  to  be  my  wife 
would  be  only  to  add  misery  to  mistake." 

"  That's  so,"  the  old  banker  corroborated,  smack> 
ing  his  lips,  "but  you  wouldn't  be  much  worse 
when  you'd  done  that  than  you  are  now;  so  why 
not  just  let  her  have  her  way  ?" 

Bienville  tried  to  speak  again,  but  his  dry  lips 
'refused  to  fram^  the  words. 

"Noble  .  .  ,  impossible  .  .  .  drag  you  down," 
came  incoherently  from  him,  when  by  a  quick 
backward  movement  he  stepped  over  the  thresh' 
old  into  the  semi-obscurity  of  the  hall. 

The  act  was  so  sudden  that  rxonds  had  already 
elapsed  before  Marion  Grimston  uttered  the  ciy 
that  rent  her  like  the  wail  of  some  strong,  pri- 
mordial creature  without  the  power  ot  tears. 

"Raoul,  come  back!" 

With  rapid  motion  she  glided  across  the  room 
and  was  in  the  hall. 

"Raoul,  come  back!" 

She  had  descended  the  hall,  and  had  almost 
reached  him  as  he  opened  the  door  to  nass  out. 

"Raoul,  I  love  your 

But  the  door  closed  as,  falling  against  it,  she 
sank  to  the  floor.  Before  Miss  Lucilia  and  James 
van  Tromp  could  reach  her  she  was  already  losing 
consciousness. 

34« 


XXVI 

NO;  stay  where  you  are;  I'll  go." 
Derek  spoke  with  the  terse  command  of 
subdued  excitement,  almost  pushing  Diane  back 
as  she,  too.  attempted  to  go  to  Marion's  assistance' 
J>he  sank  obediently  into  one  of  the  great  chairs 
too  dazed  even  foi  curiosity  as  to  what  was  passing 
m  the  hal.     Derek  closed  the  door  behind  him? 
and,  though  confused  sounds  of  voices  and  shuffline 
feet  reached  her,  she  gave  them  but  a  dulled  atten- 
t.on      It  was  not  till  he  came  back  that  her  stunned 
mttlhgence  revived  sufficiently  to  enable  her  to. 

He  dosed   the   door  again,   throwing  himself 
weanly  into  another  of  the  big  leathern  chairs. 
Ihey  ve  taken  her  into  Lucilla's  room.     She'll 

like la"t"'  ""''•     ^'  """'  •''""  '^^  "  ^'•°"'''  ''"•V 

"Jil"  I!°M,'°  '"^^-    ^'^  »fr»'«l  for  him." 
'-'n,  he  11  survive  it." 

"You  don't  know  our  Frenchmen.  They're  not 
Jike  you,  nor  any  of  your  men.  With  their  sensi- 
tiveness to  honor  and  their  indifference  to  moral 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 


right,  it's  difficult  for  you  to  understand  them.     I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  at  anything  he  might  do." 

"  I'll  go  and  see  him  to-morrow  and  try  to  knock 
a  little  reason  into  him." 

"  If  it  isn't  too  late." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  it  will  be.  Everything  seems 
to  be — too  late." 

"It's  better  that  some  things  should  come  too 
late  rather  than  not  at  all." 

"  What  things  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  suppose  I  ijnean  the  same  things  as  you  do." 

He  gave  a  long  sigh  that  was  something  of  a 
groan,  slipping  down  in  his  chair  into  an  attitude, 
not  of  informality,  but  of  dejection.  For  the  mo- 
ment neither  was  equal  to  facing  the  great  subjects 
that  must  be  met. 

"I  wonder  what  Bienville  will  do  to  himself?" 
he  asked,  suddenly,  changing  his  position  with 
nervous  brusqueness,  leaning  forward  now,  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees. 

"I  wish  you'd  go  and  see  him  to-night." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  will.  I've  a  good  deal  of 
fellow-feeling  with  him.  I  tan't  help  thinking 
that  he  and  I  are  in  much  the  same  box,  and  that 
he  has  shown  me  the  way  out." 

"Derek!" 

She  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  alarm,  standing, 
with  hands  crossed  on  her  breast,  in  a  sudden  access 
of  terror. 

35° 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid,"  he  laughed,  grimly,  star- 
ing up  at  her.  "I'm  not  his  sort.  There  are  no 
heroics  about  me.  Men  of  my  stamp  don't  make 
theatrical  exits;  we're  too  confoundedly  sane. 
Whether  we  do  well  or  whether  we  do  ill,  we  plod 
along  on  our  treadmill  round,  from  the  house  to 
the  office,  and  from  the  office  to  the  grave,  as  if 
we  never  had  anything  on  the  conscience.  But  if 
I  had  the  spirit  of  Bienville,  do  you  know  what  I 
should  do?" 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  burst  out.      'Don't  say  it! 
Don't  say  it!" 

"Then  I  won't.  But  if  Bienville  thought  of  it, 
why  shouldn't  I .?  What  has  he  done  that  is  worse 
than  what  I've  done .?  What  has  he  done  that's  as 
bad  ?  For,  after  all,  you  were  little  or  nothing  to 
him,  when  you  were  everything  to  me.  I  knew 
you  as  he  didn't  know  you.  I  had  lived  in  one 
house  with  you,  watched  you,  studied  you,  tried 
you,  put  you  to  tests  that  you  never  knew  anything 
about,  and  had  seen  you  come  through  them  suc- 
cessfully. I  had  seen  how  you  bore  misfortune; 
I  had  seen  how  you  carried  yourself  in  difficult 
situations;  I  had  seen  the  skill  with  which  you 
ruled  my  house,  and  the  wisdom  with  which  you 
were  more  than  a  mother  to  my  child;  I  had  seen 
you  combine  with  all  that  is  most  womanly  tlie 
patience  and  fortitude  of  a  man;  and  it  wasi/t 
enough  for  me— it  wasn't  enough  for  me!" 
3S' 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

He  threw  himself  back  into  his  seat,  with  a 
desperate  flinging  out  of  the  hands,  letting  his 
arms  drop  heavily  over  the  sides  of  his  chair  till 
his  fingers  touched  the  floor. 

"My  God!  My  God!"  he  groaned,  ironically. 
"It  wasn't  enough  for  me!  I  doubted  her.  I 
doubted  her  on  the  first  idle  word  that  came  my 
way.  I  did  more  than  doubt  her.  I  haled  her 
into  my  court,  and  tried  her,  and  condemned  her, 
and,  as  nearly  as  might  be,  put  her  to  death.  I, 
with  my  ten  hundred  thousand  sins— all  of  them 
as  black  as  Erebus — found  her  not  pure  enough 
for  me!  It  ought  to  make  one  die  of  laughter. 
Diane,"  he  went  on,  in  another  tone — a  tone  of 
ghastly  jocularity— "didn't  it  amuse  you,  knowing 
yourself  to  be  what  you  are — knowing  what  you 
had  done  for  Mrs.  Eveleth— knowing  the  things 
Bienville  has  just  said  of  you — didn't  it  amuse  you 
to  see  me  sitting  in  judgment  on  you  ?" 

"It  doesn't  amuse  me  to  see  you  sitting  in  judg- 
ment on  yourself." 

"Doesn't  it.?  I  should  think  it  would.  It 
seems  to  me  that  if  I  saw  a  man  who  had  done  me 
so  much  harm  visited  with  such  awful  justice  as 
I'm  getting  now,  it  would  make  up  to  me  for  nearly 
everything  I  ever  had  to  sufl^er." 

"In  my  case  it  only  adds  to  it.     I  wish  you 
wouldn't  say  these  things.     If  you  ever  did  me 
wrong,  I  always  knew  it  was — by  mistake." 
3Sa 


Jl 


V,'.;  ».-  ,■■,■. 


THE      INNER      SHRINE 

"Oh,    Lordl    Oh,    Lord!"    He    laughed    out- 
right, getting  up  from  his  chair  and  dragging  him- 
self heavily  across  the  room,  where,  with  his  hands 
in   his   pockets  and   his   back   against  the   book- 
shelves, he  stood  facing  her.     "What  do  you  think 
of  Bienville's  attitude  toward  Marion  Grimston  ?" 
he    asked,   with    an    inflection    that   would    have 
sounded  casual  if  it  had  not  been  for  all  that  lay 
behind. 
"I  can  understand  it;  but  I  think  he  was  wrong." 
"You  think  he  ought  to  allow  her  to  marry  him  ?" 
"Weighing  one  thing  with  another— yes." 
"Would  you  marry  a  man  who  had  shown  him- 
self such  a  hound  ?" 
"It  would  depend." 
"On  what?" 

"Oh,  on  a  good  many  things." 
"Such  as— ?" 

She  hesitated  a  minute  before  deciding  whether 
or  not  to  walk  into  his  trap,  but,  as  his  eyes  were 
on  the  ground  and  she  felt  stronger  than  a  minate 
or  two  ago,  she  decided  to  do  it. 

"It  would  depend,  for  one  thing,  on  whether  or 
not  I  loved  him." 

"And  if  you  did  love  him  ?" 
Again  she  hesitated,  before  making  up  her  mind 
to  speak. 

"Then  it  would  depend  on  whether  or  not  he 
loTDd  me." 

353 


i  I 


T  a  E      I  N  N  E  R      SHRINE 

She  had  given  him  his  chance.    The  word  he 
had  never  uttered  must  come  now  or  never.     For 
an  instant  he  seemed  about  to  seize  his  opportunity} 
but  when  he  actually  spoke  it  was  only  to  tay: 
"Would  yuu  marry  me?" 
"No."     She  gave  her  answer  firmly. 
"No?"  ' 

"No." 
"Why?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  threw  out  her 
hands,  but  said  nothing  in  words. 

"Is  it  because  I  haven't  expressed  regret  for  all 
the  things  I  have— to  regret  f" 
She  shook  her  head. 

"Because  if  it  is,"  he  went  on,  "I  haven't  done 
It  only  for  the  reason  that  the  utmost  expression 
^uld  be  so  inadequate  as  to  become  a  mockery. 
When  a  man  has  sinned  ugainst  light,  as  I've  done, 
no  mere  cries  of  contrition  are  going  to  win  him 
pardon.     That  must  come  as  a  spontaneous  act  of 
grace,  as  it  wells  out  of  the  heart  of  the  Most  Hidi 
— or  it  can't  come  at  all." 
"That  isn't  the  reason." 
"Then  there's  another  one?" 
"Yes;   another  one." 
"One  that's  insurmountable?" 
"Yes,  as  things  are— that's  insurmountable." 
With  a  look  of  dumb,  unresenting  sadness,  he 
turned  away,  and,  leaning  on  the  mantel-piece,  stood 
3S4 


DRAWN    BT    rnAMK    CRAIC 

"SINCE  THE    INNER   SHRINE   IS    UNLOCKED-AT    LA8T- 
I'LU    SO     IN" 


THE     INNER      SHRINE 

with  his  back  toward  her,  and  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands. 

Minutes  went  by  in  silence.  When  he  spoke  it 
was  over  his  shoulder,  and,  as  it  were,  parentheti- 
cally: 

"  But,  Diane,  I  love  you." 
He  stood  as  he  was,  listening,  but  as  if  with- 
out much  f-xpectation,  for  a  response.  When  none 
came,  and  fte  turned  round  inquiringly,  he  beheld 
in  her  that  radiant  change  which  was  visible  to 
those  who  saw  the  martyred  Stephen's  face  as  he 
gazed  straight  into  heaven. 

For  a  long  minute  he  stood  spellbound  and 
amazed. 

"Was  it  that?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 
She  gave  him  no  reply. 

"It  was  that,"  he  declared,  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  making  a  discovery.     "It  was  that." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  before?"  she  found 
strength  to  say. 

"Tell  you,  Diane  ?  What  was  the  use  of  telling 
you— when  you  knew?  My  life  has  been  open, 
for  you  to  look  into  as  you  would." 

"Yes,  but  not  to  go  into.  There's  only  one  key 
that  unlocks  the  inner  shrine  of  all— the  word 
you've  just  spoken.  A  woman  knows  nothing  till 
she  hears  it." 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  puzzled  air  of  a  man 
getdng  strange  information. 
355 


THE      INNER      ii  H  R  I  N  B 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "you've 
heard  it.    So  what — now  ?" 

"Now  I'm  willing  to  say  that  I  love  you." 

"Oh,  but  I  knew  that  already,"  he  returned. 
"A  man  doesn't  need  to  be  told  what  he  can  see. 
That  isn't  what  I'm  asking.  What  I  want  to  learn 
is,  not  what  you  feel,  but  what  you'll— do." 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"I'm  asking  what  you'll— do?"  he  repeated. 

"If  you  insist  on  my  telling  you  that,"  she  said 
glancing  up  at  him  shyly,  "I'll  say  that— since  the 
inner  shrine  is  unlocked — at  last — I'll  go  in." 

"Then,  come,  come." 

He  stood  with  arms  open,  his  tone  of  petition 
still  blended  with  a  suggestion  of  command,  as 
the  crossed  the  room  toward  him. 


TRB    BMO 


^NE^GRETSNOVELS 

^^^^A' -'■>.. 

BETTYZAN^'  ""^  "^  '"-'"St  oili  ttTiS  *'*^  "^  "«^  ««« 
THE  LONE  STAR  RA^f;  tr 

THE   LAST  OF  THEWE^TTcmJZ 
Tk.  «PK  "^'«","-ody  Wetmore  and  Zane  Grev 

OROsaET  &  Du^fLAP 


Mioioconr  >esoiution  test  chart 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2| 


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BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 


■n  IM  liad  wlimvM  Inola  in  nli.    jUKW  Browt  »  DmlWi  mt 


gEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 


No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portmjwd 
ttifi  immortal  young  people  of  this  atory.    Its  humor  is  at— 
■istible  and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  WM 
Seventeen. 
PENROD.    niuBtrated  by  Ck)rdon  Grant 

This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hi- 
morous,  tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  old* 
folks.    It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 
PENROD  AND  3AM'.  lUustrsted  by  Worth  Brehm. 

like"  Penrod"  and  " Seventeen,"  this  book  contaJna 
■ome  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
■tories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  wntteo. 
THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  CSiambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imamiative  youth,  who  re- 
Volts  against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitOT  of 
big  business.    The  love  of  a  fins  girl  turns  Bibb  s  life  baa 
wure  to  success. 
THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispieoe. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  pictiue  tt 
a  country  editor's  life  in  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 
,THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl'a 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  m  the  md 
marries  a  rtupid  and  unpromising  cuitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 


Mt  for  Compltle  free  lilt  of  G.   &  D.   Pbpulcr  CotyHghltd  "ItUm 

Publishers,        New  York 


GpOSSET   &   DUNLAP, 


If:: 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

MARY_RQBERTS    RINEHART 

Mar  t»  iMd  w*«fiwrbwiiii  u»  told.    Ait  fof  amtt  t  DiwiwT litt 


"K."     Illustrated 

K.  LeMoyne,  famous  surgeon,  drops  out  of  the  world  that 
u  '^°^.,^'^J^,.e°^  to  Uve  in  a  litUe  town  where 
beautiful  Sidney  Page  hves.  She  is  in  training  to  become  • 
""^'ii,  I  '"^  J  troubles  of  their  young  love  are  toM 
with  that  keen  and  sympathetic  appreciation  which  has 
made  the  author  famous. 

THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN. 
Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  absorbing  detective  story  woven  around  the  mysterl- 
ous  death  of  the  "Man  in  Lower  Ten."    The  strongest 
elements  of  Mrs.  Rmehart's  success  are  found  in  this  book 
WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES. 
Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him. 
tmds  that  his  aunt  is  soon  to  visit  him.  The  aunt,  who 
Mntnbutes  to  the  family  income  and  who  has  never  seen 
the  wife,  knows  nothmg  of  the  domestic  upheaval.  How 
the  young  man  met  the  situation  is  humorously  and  most 
entertainingly  told. 

THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE.  lUus.  by  Lester  Ralph.' 
The  summer  occupants  of  "Sunnyside"  find  the  dead 
body  of  Arnold  Armstrong,  the  son  of  the  owner,  on  the  cir- 
cular  staircase.  Following  the  murder  a  bank  failure  is  an- 
nounced. Around  these  two  events  is  woven  a  olot  of 
absorbmg  mterest.  *^ 

THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS. 
Illustrated  (Photo  Play  Edition.) 

Harmony  WeUs,  studying  in  Vienna  to  be  a  great  vio- 
limst,  suddenly  realizes  that  her  money  is  ahnoet  gone.  She 
meets  a  young  ambitious  doctor  who  offers  her  chivalry  and 
sympathy  and  together  with  world-worn  Dr.  Anna  and 
Jimmie,  the  waif,  they  share  their  love  and  slender  means. 

Grosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        New  York 


|:i 


SJ 


11 


MYRTLE 

REED' 

S 

NOVELS 

Mn  IN  tm  «IMnm  books  «  soM.     AM  (oc  tn—t  nl  Dmlip-i  IM. 

LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 

A  charming  story  of  a  quaint  comer  of  New  England,  where  by- 
gone romance  finds  a  modem  parallel.  The  story  centers  round 
the  coming  of  love  to  the  young  people  on  the  staff  of  a  newspaper— 
and  it  is  one  of  the  prettiest,  sweetest  and  quaintest  of  old'fashioDed 
love  stories. 
MASTER  OF  THE  VINEYAkD. 

A  pathetic  love  story  of  a  young  gfrl.  Rosemary.  The  teftcber  of 
the  country  schoc!,  who  is  also  master  of  the  vineyard,  comes  to 
know  her  through  her  desire  for  books.  She  is  happy  in  his  love  tiO 
another  woman  comes  into  his  life.  But  happiness  and  emancipa- 
tion from  her  many  trials  come  to  Rosemary  at  last.  The  book  has 
a  touch  of  humor  and  pathos  that  will  app^  to  every  reader. 
OLD  ROSE  AND  SILVeR. 

A  love  story, — sentimental  and  humorous, — with  the  plot  snbOT> 
dinate  to  the  character  delineation  of  its  quaint  people  and  to  the 
exquisite   descriptions  of  picturesque  spots  and  of  lovely,  old*  rare 
treasures. 
A  WEAVER  OF  DREAMS. 

This  story  tells  of  the  love-affairs  of  three  young  people,  with  an 
old-fashioned  romance  in  the  background.  A  tiny  dog  plays  an  im- 
portant role  in  serving  aa  a  foil  /or  the  heroine's  talking  ingeniou»- 
ness.  There  is  poetry,  as  well  as  tenderness  and  charm,  in  this  tale 
of  a  weaver  of  dreams. 
A  SPINNER   IN  THE  SUN. 

An  old-fashioned  love  story,  of  a  veiled  lady  who  lives  in  solitude 
end  whose  features  her  neighbors  have  never  seen.    There  is  a  my^ 
tery  at   the  heart  of  the  book  that  throws  over  it  the  glamour  ol 
tomancc. 
THE  MASTER'S  yiOUN. 

A  love  Btory  in  a  musftxil  atmoophere.  A  picturewiu&  old  Ger- 
man vlrtuoeo  consents  to  take  tat  hio  pupil  a  handsome  youth  whs 
proves  to  have  an  aptitude  lor  technique,  but  not  the  soul  of  an 
artist.  The  youth  cannot  express  the  love,  the  passion  and  the 
tragedies  of  life  as  can  the  master.  But  a  girl  comes  into  his  life, 
and  through  his  passionate  love  for  her,  he  learns  the  lessons  that 
life  has  to  give — and  his  soul  awakes. 

Grosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        New  York 


lACKJL^NDON^S_NOVRrs 

lliHwli.il»twf..wliooiaii,M|<.     MnnanuttnUiii^il^T:^ 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    lUnstrated  by  H.  T  Dmm 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.   Frontispiece  by  George  Haiper. 

BURNING  DAYLIGHT.    Fonr  mustraUons. 

Sff?.;  ri  «?p^«"  "only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gin.   Hr?hen^teS 

ASONOFTHESl2I.IllnstratedbyA.O.FischeranaC.W  AsUey 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Ulust^tionsbyPhilipR.GSd  Jnand 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.    Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 

THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J  M 

«fe  Jt;t§%p?:?Te"^?tfrir^c,  .f^^^^ 

Sir°4iS'S',^t!>SSSftf  '»'*'-•""-'  loveepil^ftrt^e:^ 
WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 


Grosset   &   DuKLAP.  Publishers.   New  Y 


ORK 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM  MacLEOD   RAINE 

HANDSOMELY  BODND  IN  CLOTH.     ILLUSTRATED. 


I  M  wlMimr  boom  an  wM.     iUk  tor  Smnt  nt  D«M>'«  IM 


MAVERICKS. 

A  tale  oi  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "rustler,"  whose  dep. 
redations  are  so  keenly  resented  by  the  early  settlers  of  the  range, 
abouids.    One  of  the  sweetest  love  stories  ever  told.,/ 

A  TEXAS  RANGER. 

How  a  member  of  the  most  dauntless  border  police  force  carried 
law  into  the  mesquit,  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man  after  a  senes 
of  thrilling  adventured,  followed  a  fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  thea 
passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happmess. 

WYOMING. 

In  this  vivid  story  of  the  outdoor  West  the  author  has  captured 
the  breezy  charm  of  "cattleland,"  and  brings  out  the  turbid  hfe  of 
the  frontier  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  poU- 
Ucs  and  mining  industries  are  the  religion  of  the  country.  'XJe 
political  contest,  the  love  scene,  and  the  fine  character  drawing  givB 
ibis  story  great  strength  and  charm.  « 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR. 

Every  chapter  teems  with  'wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  rfc 
plete  with  the  dashing  spirit  of  the  border,  told  with  dramaUc  dasb 
and  absorbing  fascination  of  style  and  plot. 

CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT. 

A  story  of  Arizona;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws;  ci 
a  bitter  feud  between  cattle-men  andsheep-herdera.  The  heroine 
Is  a  most  unusual  woman  and  her  love  story  reaches  a  culminatloB 
that  is  fittingly  characteristic  of  the  great  free  West. 

BR/.ND  BLOTTERS. 

A  story  of  the  Cattle  Range.  This  story  brings  out  the  turUd 
life  of  the  frontier,  with  all  its  engaging  dash  and  vigor,  with  a  charm- 
ing love  interest  running  through  its  320  pages. 


Grosset  &  DuNLAP,     Publishers,     New  York 


